Memories of Eden
by Susan Zell
Summary: After a terrible accident, Buck Wilmington is transported back in time prior to the death of Chris Larabee's wife and son. Can he make a difference this time or is Chris's idyllic life doomed from the start? Warning: violence, language, and death.


DISCLAIMER: All characters from "The Magnificent Seven" series are the property of Trilogy Entertainment, The Mirisch Group, and MGM Worldwide. They were borrowed merely to relate a long lost tale and they will be returned to their rightful place upon completion. No profit has been made by this venture.  
  
NOTE: This story takes place sometime after Nemesis.  
  
COMMENTS: This story previously published in the Fanzine "Scoundrels, Sinners and Saviors" #2. Nominated for Best M7 Story of 2001 at MediaWest Conference.  
  
MEMORIES OF EDEN  
  
Magnificent Seven Fan Fiction  
  
by Susan Zell  
  
Buck Wilmington dreaded this day.  
  
Dreaded it ever since he and Chris Larabee had renewed their acquaintance in Four Corners almost five months distant now. It was this same exact day two years ago when they had separated company.  
  
The painful memory of that falling out had faded though when Buck had seen Chris standing there on the boardwalk after his tumble out Blossom's window. Chris had approached Buck that day, not the other way around. He had known Buck was in town and had sought Buck's assistance in defending the Indian village. That alone had lifted Buck's spirits. Chris still needed Buck's help even after all that they had been through.  
  
But now the events that had led up to their initial parting of the ways reared its head again as it did every year for Chris Larabee. Buck was almost afraid of what would happen this time.  
  
The saloon in Four Corners had emptied of everyone except for Buck, Ezra and Vin. Night had descended on the little town and most citizens had now gone to bed, waiting for the rising of the sun only a few hours distant. Ezra Standish, continuing his silent mediation with his deck of cards, still lingered. He was usually the second from the last one to leave the establishment on normal days. He rarely went to bed before two in the morning, mainly because it wasn't good for business.  
  
The only man to ever outlast him in the saloon was Chris Larabee, and it puzzled the gambler that Chris had retired early. Of course, the two bottles of rotgut Chris took with him upstairs only showed that the gunslinger was about to immerse himself in some serious drinking and he wanted to do it in private.  
  
At the table to Ezra's left, Vin Tanner's long thin finger tapped out a steady staccato against the grain of the wooden table. It was the only part of his motionless body that revealed the strain that hung heavy in the air tonight. Something was going on but he didn't know exactly what, though he had his suspicions.  
  
A day that should have been like any other suddenly wasn't, and for no reason that Vin could put a name to other than the fact that habits were broken and men lapsed into moods better suited for a funeral. Buck, a man who was usually settled into someone of the female persuasion's bed at this time of the night, now haunted the saloon like a morose ghost. Previously, he had followed the shadow of Chris Larabee around town, never close enough for conversation, but never more than twenty or so feet from wherever Chris wandered.  
  
And wandered Chris had, aimlessly drifting about Four Corners like a black specter, his mood matching his clothes with deadly accuracy. He hadn't said a word all day and everyone gave him a wide berth, the seven included. Eventually, Chris just purchased his whiskey and disappeared into his rented room.  
  
When Vin had seen Buck distractedly brush aside Blossom's invitation for the night, he knew something was wrong and so now he, too, sat in silent vigil. He only suspected that it had to do with Chris' past, most likely his deceased family which meant it was going to be a rough night.  
  
Buck glanced up to the ceiling for the hundredth time over the last few hours, towards the area where Chris' room was located. Again his eyes dropped tiredly back down to the dusty floor, staring at nothing in particular. He shifted restlessly in his chair, torn between staying where he was, going upstairs to talk to Chris, or just going straight to his own bed. The unusual scowl which he had adopted for the day only made the other two men in the room more nervous.  
  
Ezra shrugged as he caught Vin's eye He decided to call it a night, the scrape of the chair legs on the sawdust littered floor decreed it. Standing wearily, he slipped on his green jacket, silently bidding the other two men goodnight. Instinct told him to get as far away from Chris Larabee as possible tonight, and above all, Ezra was a man who listened to his instinct.  
  
* * *  
  
Chris Larabee sat at his lone table in the compact and barren room, a scowl deeper than Buck's adorning his face, his eyes centering without seeing the lamp's flame burning low before him. His right hand encircled a shot glass, empty but for the small puddle of excess that had dripped down its sides after its owner had drained it.  
  
One bottle already lay on the floor, emptied and shadowed in the murky gloom. Its twin sat ready to be consumed beside the dying lamp, whose fading glow highlighted the amber liquid inside, casting a bright golden luster upon the table.  
  
Unaware, Chris' hand tightened forcefully around the glass as another wave of memories forced their way to the forefront of his mind. The lines in his face wore more intense. Chris raised a quivering hand to grasp the bottle and attempted to pour himself another shot. A great deal of it spread over the table as the tremors in Chris' hand intensified. With a curse, Chris gave up trying to get the whiskey in the glass and instead pulled a long draught from the bottle itself. To his dismay, he no longer felt any of the hard, acidic burn from the whiskey but he drank it anyway, hoping that it would at least inebriate him enough to allow him escape from this night.  
  
The slight movement of tilting his head back to swallow made the room spin, and he blinked dully against it. He dragged himself to his feet, one hand gripping the edge of the small wooden table, the other his only relief, the whisky bottle.  
  
As he rose, he caught a glimpse of himself in his shaving mirror situated on the far wall. Caught by his wasted reflection, looking through haunted eyes, the man in black started to shake. Dark sunken eyes, deep worn creases and cold dead eyes stared back at him. Anguish, fear, regret, and whiskey had taken their toll and they hadn't been kind.  
  
Sarah would hate to see him like this. She'd have booted him out and moved back to her parents, taking Adam along with her. His mouth painfully thinned at the thought. It would have been better if they had, he reflected bitterly. Maybe he should have started drinking years ago. Maybe then they'd still be alive.  
  
God, why hadn't he come back home to them? Why had he listened to Buck and lingered one last night in that forsaken Mexican town? Buck... Buck and his damn fling...what was her name? Helena?... No, Elena. He shut his eyes as he rode a wave of fury. Fury at himself but flung at Buck. His teeth gnashed together at the upswell of fresh agony.  
  
Furious that the whiskey was betraying him, he drank more, most of it sliding out of the corners of his mouth where his flesh had tightened so much from the despair that he could not completely enclose the bottle's neck. He nearly choked on the rush of liquid. Coughing, with the bottle still clenched firmly in his grip, he used the back of his hand to wipe away the excess as it ran off his chin and down his neck to pool at his open black shirt.  
  
He held the gaze of the stranger in the mirror one last time before jerking away from the accusatory stare. However, when he let go of the table's edge he was unprepared for the sudden weakness in his limbs. He collapsed to the floor, slamming painfully to the unyielding wood though his numbed brain had yet to realize it. In the confusion, it was the safest place to land for soon his whole body began to tremble though the bottle still remained tightly in his grasp. Frustrated, he found he couldn't stand up.  
  
There was a swift knock on the door which abruptly opened and Buck stepped in, his face full of concern and fear. He immediately spied Chris on the floor, struggling to get to his feet. "Jesus, Chris." He moved in quickly to help the gunslinger, but Chris' hostile mood wasn't about to permit that.  
  
Chris shoved Buck's assistance aside furiously. "Leave me the 'ell alone, Buck," he snarled dangerously. The last person he wanted to see right now was Buck.  
  
Buck recognized the warning signs but came on regardless. "Yeah, I'll just leave you to sleep it off on the floor. That'll be good for you." He got his arms under Chris and hefted the man's almost limp form upright and steered him toward the bed. Buck had been expecting this. It hadn't been the first night he had helped Chris to bed, though this time Chris' anger turned his way with more venom than usual.  
  
Chris fumbled to get his feet under him, and as soon as he did, he pulled roughly away from Buck and stood swaying. "I don' *need* you here...I don' *want* you here. Jus get out!" His words slurred around each other but their meaning was clear.  
  
Buck's voice lowered. Arguing with Chris in this state wasn't going to buy him anything. "Stop this, Chris. Just go to bed."  
  
"Wha are you doin' here?" Chris snapped, shoving Buck's steadying arm away, the force of it surprising for a man in his condition. "Go bac' to yur women."  
  
Buck angered at the slur though he knew he shouldn't. It was just the whiskey talking. "Knock it off, Chris."  
  
Chris' face pinched together as if a wave of extreme suffering skewered his head. "Yur always thinkin' with.. wrong end, Buck....always chasin' a skirt. Jus like tha' night."  
  
Stunned, Buck stepped away from the enraged Chris but the gunslinger advanced on steadying legs, fueled by the rage that was flooding his system. "Don't, Chris," Buck pleaded, his own private guilt rushing to the forefront. He knew where this was leading. It was the single shame that he couldn't escape but at one time Chris used to dismiss. Now suddenly, the gunslinger wasn't. "I'm sorry," Buck said. "I never meant for it to happen that way."  
  
Chris sneered, his liquor-saturated breath drifted over Buck. "No, of course not."  
  
Buck faltered. "I wasn't thinking. I should have never asked you to stay. My fault..."  
  
"Of course." Chris clutched that one thought like a drowning man's floating wreckage. "It was *yur* fault. Ya couldn't las' one more night without a poke. Jus twe'ty four hours more, Buck. Ya couldn't wait, could you?" Chris' voice was cracking under the weight of his rage. "Like an ass, I waited for you....and they died!"  
  
Buck's mouth went dry as Chris voiced for the first time the guilt that Buck carried within him for the last three years. Chris had always denied it, repeatedly saying the decision had been his to stay, regardless of Buck's vices. But now suddenly, Chris spoke his accusation openly. To hear him admit it knifed through Buck. He couldn't breath; he couldn't swallow. He stepped back against the wall, bumping into the mirror with his head. It tilted wildly, swinging dangerously but remained on the nail.  
  
"I'm sorry, Chris." Buck wasn't sure if the words had actually fallen from his lips or whether the numbness of his body prevented it, but Chris advanced on him, still burning with the fury of a man possessed by demons. Buck didn't even resist as Chris' hand closed about his exposed throat.  
  
"Sorry?" Chris strained to say. "You're sorry?!" A psychotic smile, that held no other emotion save absolute rage, spread over the gunfighter. The pure hate that arose there terrified Buck. He could feel Chris shaking through the hand at his neck.  
  
Chris' voice dropped to a low hiss. "Ya haven' learned yur lesson, Buck. Ya still go from one woman t' another. Ya don' think I see that? Ya don' think it reminds me of tha' night every time? Tha' night when we stopped to take care of yurr *need* while my wife and son *burned*."  
  
Extreme agony ripped through both men at the confession that now lay before them and they stared at each other, the room plunging into the icy coldness that gripped Chris Larabee. Chris drew his fist back with a feral snarl and Buck waited for the inevitable. He deserved it. And he waited, watching Chris' eyes as they shifted from hatred to rage to misery.  
  
Chris let out a howl meant to wake the dead and slammed his raised fist into the mirror beside Buck's head. It shattered into huge slivers, most of them falling across Chris' hand, drawing long red cuts which began to bleed immediately. Chris' expression never changed though the pain of the wounds must have been extreme. He was already ravaged by a far greater agony.  
  
"Damn you, Buck," he whispered. "Damn us both to hell."  
  
Chris slumped away from Buck who stood rigid, his eyes wide, his breath struggling as shock and shame gripped him. Chris fumbled for his hat and weaved out the door, never noticing the tall frame of Vin Tanner standing amongst the shadows on the opposite side of the door. Chris' bloody hand left red smears on the wall and along the banister as he stumbled down the stairs.  
  
The bounty hunter watched the man in black stagger out the saloon doors, but he made no move to follow him. Chris would never allow it and he knew that. This was something Chris had to get through on his own. Vin would be here if and when the man came to his senses.  
  
He stepped into Chris' room and found Buck still rooted amongst the shards of broken glass, his mouth twisted into a grimace. Buck glanced insensibly towards the door almost in fear of it being someone else.  
  
Vin met Buck's haunted eyes, noting that the scoundrel didn't seem hurt physically. In a soft voice, he pointed out, "That wasn't really Chris."  
  
Buck's jaw clenched, unable to speak just yet.  
  
Vin continued. "He's drawn deep tonight, away from all of us. He's stuck so far into the past that he's reacting solely out of his pain not sense." Vin's voice was no louder than an exhaled breath, but he knew Buck could hear him in the deafening silence that was now Chris Larabee's room.  
  
Buck closed his eyes and saw again that lunatic smile of Chris'. He had seen it before but never had it been directed at on him.  
  
"We're all here tonight, Buck, because he's not all there," Vin reminded him.  
  
Buck gave a curt nod to Vin's attempt at comfort but right now he needed to be alone. He moved past Vin and went to his own room, the thought of female companionship suddenly repulsive.  
  
Vin stood for a moment more in the room, taking in its stark nature, the discarded bottles rolling on the floor, one leaking its remnants to mix with Chris' blood now dotting the wooden boards. Vin moved the bottle aside with the toe of his boot, separating the mixture. Then he leaned down to the table and blew out the lamp. A tendril of smoke curled from the wick's ember into the murky void that hung in the room. Turning to the window, he saw a shadow moving along the deserted street; it was darker than the ebony night around it. There was only one person it could be.  
  
Chris was heading for the stables but the way the man was walking, Vin doubted he could ride a horse. With any luck Chris would pass out in a warm stall instead of in the street. He watched the unsteady, lurching shadow until it made its way to its destination. When no one came out after a while Vin left the room, closing the door behind him, moving downstairs again. Vin could hear the wind pick up outside. A storm was coming, cold and bitter. They had best prepare themselves.  
  
* * *  
  
"Stop foolin' around, Buck."  
  
JD's notion to get away from town for a bit and enjoy a quiet ride had seemed like a good idea at the time. But now JD was becoming slightly nervous at his mentor's antics. The older man was in a disturbing mood for some reason. He suspected that it had something to do with the way Chris had been acting yesterday. Their leader had become more and more sullen, almost bordering on maniacal. At daybreak though, without warning, the man in black had fled the town, whipping his steed into a frenzied gallop and riding as if the ghosts of Hades themselves were on his heels.  
  
Earlier in the morning, JD, confused over their leader, approached the one person who did not find Chris' actions puzzling. Buck. The usually jovial cowboy merely shrugged despondently and announced that Chris "had his reasons," assuring the kid that he'd come back when he was ready. Sitting beside Buck outside the saloon, Vin had said nothing but occasionally cast a glance towards the end of town where the dust from Chris' horse had long since settled to ground.  
  
It was a bad sign then when Buck also began acting peculiar, which only set the rest on an edge that suddenly seemed sharper and more fragile than ever. Something was happening, but no one knew what, and those that did had either fled Four Corners or weren't telling a living soul.  
  
While Buck and JD were out riding, the day had grown increasingly overcast as the threat of a violent storm crept across the land. It saturated the atmosphere, becoming almost tangible, leaving the countryside more dismal and disturbingly quiet than usual.  
  
Almost.  
  
On the outskirts of the heavily wooded glen, Buck reined in his grey sharply, making the horse bounce a few steps before dancing to a halt. The animal was lathered and anxious, matching his rider's mood. Neither seemed able to stand still for a moment.  
  
JD came abreast of him, his own horse tired and worn. He had had trouble keeping pace with Buck's wild, practically driven flight. It had taken all of JD's skill as a horseman to remain seated and out of the way of the perilous and reaching branches of the pines that dipped low to pluck the unsuspecting from their perches. JD was more worried than ever. Something was not right here. He had hoped that once he had Buck outside of Four Corners, he could get the man to open up, but Buck seemed to be running from something as fast as Chris Larabee. Whenever JD broached the subject, Buck became wilder in action and more introverted in speech.  
  
Now two hours later, JD was no closer to finding out the truth and Four Corners was on the horizon. The young man was grateful in a way. The town meant that maybe Buck would settle down again. JD had never been more scared of what was happening to the two people he admired most. They were falling apart before his eyes and he didn't know how to help either of them. Chris was out of his reach as usual, but with Buck he felt he had a chance to help if only the man would let him.  
  
Buck ripped off his hat and wiped roughly at his saturated brow. Glancing behind him at the devilish course they had just run, he gave a loud whoop of triumph that startled JD's horse.  
  
Pulling up his shying mount more harshly than he intended, JD got angry at Buck's reckless exuberance. "Knock it off, Buck!"  
  
"Aw, come on, JD, admit it! That was a thrill!" His grey's nostrils flared wide as it continued to suck in great lungfuls of air, still nervous and dancing as Buck's spurs continued to lightly brush its flanks. It knew instinctively that the wild ride was not over. Unfortunately, JD did not.  
  
"A thrill?" the boy exclaimed. "Damn near got us kilt! It was just plain reckless. A grown man should know better!" JD regretted his words the instant they escaped his lips.  
  
That sobered Buck momentarily as if reminded of something he'd rather not remember. His scowl darkened, his mouth becoming a mere slit upon his face. He wheeled the grey towards Four Corners, his spurs raking the horse abruptly.  
  
Buck's low moan of anguish drifted back to a disbelieving JD. This was turning uglier and uglier. What the hell was wrong with Buck?  
  
Buck hung low over his grey's lathered neck as they raced for sanctuary, for peace, for oblivion. Buck, desperate to outrun his own thoughts, begged his horse to go faster. Loyal to the end, it complied, its long legged stride eating up the semi-open territory. Buck's eyes drifted to the ground as it blurred beneath the flying hooves. Like a rain-flecked window it smeared into memories. It was September eleventh. Three years ago.  
  
The moisture that arose in Buck's eyes dried almost immediately against the rush of air. Today was the anniversary of Sarah and Adam Larabee's deaths, a day when guilt consumed Buck far faster than his horse's wild run. Even Chris couldn't stand to be around him on this day for Buck was only a reminder of the frailty of men.  
  
Chris was right. They might have been able to get back in time to save Sarah and Adam if only Buck could have kept his lust reined in. But Elena had again fired his passion in that small Mexican town and Buck convinced his oblivious friend to wait for him, confident that such a small act would mean little in the larger scope of things. God, how wrong he had been! Chris had paid the ultimate price, his soul burned forever with irreplaceable loss.  
  
Chris' sharp angry words still echoed around him, cutting through Buck like a honed razor across a pale throat. Sure Chris had been drunk when he said it , but sometimes liquor gave you the courage to only say what was hidden in your heart. This time the bone had broken clean between them; he could feel it. Buck knew the truth.  
  
Chris blamed him. The man's tormented expression as he battled his killer instinct appeared once more in Buck's mind, full of reproach and hate. He had never seen Chris stare at him like that before. Not that he didn't deserve it. It *had* been his fault. Elena had slinked past him, wiggling her hips, and like a horny jackass he had followed. Chris, friend that he always was, had waited for him.  
  
Another moan fell from his lips. How could anyone stand to be around him, Buck thought. Sarah and Adam were dead because of him and nothing would ever change that. Nothing.  
  
Buck's hands clutched the coarse mane of his grey and for the first time felt the beast shudder with exhaustion. Realizing he had lost track of direction and time, he gathered his wayward senses. With weary limbs, he sat back, disgusted at himself again for his lack of compassion in the face of his guilt. He lifted the reins to gradually draw his mistreated horse to a halt.  
  
His burning eyes lifted to the horizon, expecting to see home, but instead saw only something long and dark looming suddenly before his head. He heard JD's terrified shout just as the branch from the lone, wind-whipped oak struck him brutally across his temple. A blackness Buck had never before experienced engulfed him, sound and sensation withering abruptly. Buck's last thought was that he had finally found his oblivion.  
  
* * *  
  
The blackness began to recede. First it was just distant voices and then snatches of intense light that danced before his eyes. He opened them warily to see a bright, blurry form hanging over him. He worked hard to bring it into clarity.  
  
"JD?" he mumbled.  
  
There was a slight chuckle above him and then another voice that was a familiar one from the past. "You must have hit your head harder than I thought if you're mistaking me for one of your lady friends." It was Chris. But it wasn't. He sounded different.  
  
"Chris! You're back!" Buck struggled to sit up, grasping the hand that lay comfortingly on his shoulder.  
  
"I think you've got that backward, pard. You've been out for almost ten minutes." He half rose and shouted to someone in the distance. "He's come around. He'll be fine!"  
  
Relief flooded Buck. Chris had come back to Four Corners and he no longer harbored any ill will towards him. Buck's eyes labored to focus and Chris finally formed before him, but what Buck saw made the world suddenly spin again.  
  
Chris' white, thinly-striped shirt blazed in the strong, midday sun and disappeared into his working leather chaps, soft and grass stained. The man's tan Stetson was shoved haphazardly back, revealing bright, laughing eyes. The smile that split his face was not the crazed one Buck had come to know in recent years. Instead, it was a genuine, easy-going grin that had not a touch of pain.  
  
Buck's mouth went dry with fear, his breath suddenly difficult to draw into his lungs. He reached a shaking hand out to touch a friend that he had almost forgot existed, afraid to find out only a spirit sat beside him. "Chris...?" The gunslinger seemed suddenly younger and then Buck realized why: the harsh mark of anguish was no longer marring his friend's face.  
  
Chris' smile faded, leaving only concern. "Damn, Buck, you're white as a sheet," he exclaimed. He put a steady arm under Buck's shoulders and eased him to his feet. "Come on, let's get you inside."  
  
Buck heard running feet approach and then another apparition appeared. Sarah Larabee, her own face laced with anxiety, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders in a wild array, slid to a halt at her husband's side. She reached out and lifted Buck's dark hair, revealing a growing bruise on his forehead. "Are ya alright, Buck?"  
  
Buck could barely find his voice. She was as beautiful as he remembered. "I....I can't say."  
  
Taking control of the situation, an increasingly worried Chris supported his friend's weight. "Let's get him inside out of the sun."  
  
They turned towards the small ranch house nestled in the glen, ringed by the tall majestic mountains in the distance. Bright, colorful flowers waved at him from the front porch of the Larabee home. Buck's eyes slipped slowly up the tall windmill standing beside it like a sentinel in the pristine valley. *This can't be real,* he moaned to himself. *I'm dreaming.* But Chris' strong shoulders lay beneath his arm and he felt real.  
  
Chris shook his head. "What were you thinking, Buck? Dorcha barely tolerates the wind in her saddle. What made you think you could ride her? If she hasn't learned to accept a rider by now, there isn't much more that can be done inside another week. Let Montoya handle it. She's his horse now."  
  
A distant memory washed over him. Dorcha Nighean had been the name of one of the horses, a hell bitch, that he and Chris had taken to Mexico to the Montoya hacienda...the day Sarah and Adam had died....  
  
Buck's vision caved in once more at the edges, a whirlpool of darkness and fear. As they climbed the steps, Buck's feet missed one and thumped heavily on the wood.  
  
Chris bore even more of the weight, intent on keeping his friend upright. "We're almost there." But Buck was too numb to move. His knees crumpled beneath him and Chris nearly went down, but Sarah moved quickly, coming up on Buck's other side, lending her strength to the effort. Together, they practically carried Buck to the house.  
  
Buck's head was spinning. Not only was he in the past, he was mere days before...before... He glanced over at Sarah. She smiled at him through her anxiety as if to unconsciously assure him that she was not a ghost. Her flesh beneath his hand felt warm and firm but the bright glow of the glaring sun encompassed her as it did Chris--as if they were merely angelic hosts come to take him on his final journey.  
  
Buck shook his head, tears rising unbidden to his eyes. Thankfully, they entered the house where the bright auras finally faded. Inside it was cooler and darker, much more to Buck's liking. It eased the monstrous headache that continued to reverberate within his skull.  
  
Chris lowered Buck onto a settee near the left wall of the ranch. Even though Buck's eyes were closed against the ache, both physical and emotional, the layout of the house came to him in his mind. The small sofa on which he sat would be patterned with little pastel roses and vines against a soft cream background. Its four oaken legs would curve into the feet of a lion; it's claws scraping the floor. Before him would be the kitchen, a tall oak china closet that had been a wedding present from Sarah's parents gracing the right corner. Both were from Sarah's home country of Ireland and she was fiercely proud and protective of each.  
  
It amused Buck that Sarah hadn't said a word about his dusty state, especially since the dust from the corral was now probably covering the prim little sofa. He opened his eyes and stared at her but saw no trace of annoyance, only concern. His eyes slid past her and took in the main room. Everything became swiftly familiar despite the passing of the years, his memory immediately refreshed. Sarah Larabee had been meticulous in her house, the only other thing she laid claim to besides Chris Larabee's heart.  
  
Her cool thin hand rested on Buck's practically fevered brow and he sighed. It was calming in a way, allowing him to regain his disrupted wits. This whole dream was filled with impossible realities and powerful memories. And a dream it had to be! It was as if he had fallen beneath the wheels of some terrible nightmare that shouldn't be. The confusion that welled up in Buck wanted to take over but he couldn't let it. Drawing a deep slow breath, he gazed into the faces of his two best friends.  
  
"How you feeling?" Chris asked, his anxiety unwavering.  
  
Buck nodded ever so carefully and tried his voice. "I'll be alright... in a bit. I-I just need to adjust to things." His gaze remained transfixed on the faces that had almost become strangers to him over the passing of just three years. Buck was overcome, just looking at them.  
  
"Should we get Doc Haggerty?" Sarah asked, removing her hand from Buck's forehead, pausing only a moment to brush them feather-like over the growing lump before letting the hand fall into her lap.  
  
"Nah. He'll be fine." Chris assured his wife, though his voice didn't carry its usual confidence. Buck was acting a mite strange, even for Buck. Chris shook his head slightly and placed a comforting hand on Sarah's shoulder where she crouched beside Buck. "Just give him a moment."  
  
Sarah still stared at Buck's moist eyes.  
  
Buck realized what had disturbed Chris and Sarah and roughly wiped away the lingering tears from the corners of his eyes. They had seen him break a leg and not cry out once. He tried to laugh dismissively but it came out more of a gasping hiccup. "That really hurt, you know." His hand probed tentatively at the steadily protruding bump.  
  
Chris smiled a little then. "I'll bet." He rose, moving towards the kitchen to get Buck something to drink. "Maybe that'll teach you not to pull such a stupid stunt. That mare's nothin' to mess around with. You're lucky she didn't take your damn fool head off."  
  
"I reckon so," Buck remarked lamely.  
  
Sarah grinned reassuringly at him, knowing full well her husband's rules were not meant to be broken, particularly regarding the stock. There was no helping Buck out of this predicament. Still she did her best to try. She patted Buck's knee sympathetically and rose to join Chris in the kitchen. "I do believe he's realized his error of his ways, Christopher," she pointed out.  
  
Chris turned to her and laughed loudly, easily. "I suppose that's true enough." He brought a shot of Irish Whiskey to Buck, still grinning, his fear for the scoundrel fading. The dark, amber liquid in the glass was smooth and rich from the private stock of Sarah's Da. "Here. This'll take the sting away."  
  
Buck's eyes were rooted on Chris as he numbly accepted the glass. *Chris had laughed.* Its pure form was something Buck had not heard in a long time. Not even in Four Corners. Sure, Chris would chuckle at Vin's wry humor occasionally but that strong, heartfelt laugh had been absent in the man for years. It was a shock to hear it again.  
  
Desperately, Buck threw back the whiskey despite the dizziness it caused. He exhaled slowly, hearing his breath escape, watching bright sparks flash before his eyes, but even they were dull compared to the utter whiteness of Chris' shirt; Buck's eyes narrowed against the luminescence for it was almost unbearable to look upon. He had forgotten how much his friend had changed. It was like a slap in the face. Bright clothes in exchange for dark; the earthy chaps around Chris' lean hips replaced by the ivory pistol and studded, black holster that in Buck's world was more a third appendage than an accessory to the man.  
  
Chris watched Buck's expression change again and once more a stab of apprehension struck him. He lowered his voice so his wife wouldn't hear. "Are you sure you're all right?"  
  
The muscles in Buck's cheek clenched harshly and he grimaced. "It just...hurts, Chris." Sometimes honesty worked best.  
  
"I think ya should both call it a day," Sarah cast over her shoulder as she continued with what she was doing before all the excitement began. She had been in the process of fixing dinner for the family. The skins from the thick russet potatoes peeled away beneath her knife, her nimble hands making quick work of the chore.  
  
"I'll unsaddle the mare and then come in and help with dinner," Chris said, agreeing with his wife's suggestion. He came up behind her and kissed the side of her cheek, whispering, "Watch him." Sarah nodded imperceptively. Chris observed Buck all the way to the door, hesitating briefly before stepping outside, reluctantly resolved to his helplessness in the situation. He closed the door quietly behind him.  
  
Sarah, slicing vigorously at her quarry, never paused in her actions as she glanced at the quiet man in the corner, his dark head held in his hands. She bit her lip anxiously but was unsure of what she should do.  
  
Buck's mind was awhirl. He kept thinking he would wake up any moment now back in Four Corners, back to the reality he knew. *God, was he being punished? Was this the Hell that he deserved?* He heard soft humming begin as Sarah filled her time and the house with music. It was gentle and soothing, the stroke of her small peeling knife a curious rhythm beneath the tune.  
  
Buck was afraid to look at her, afraid she'd turn on him like some demon in Hell sent to torment him, screaming, *"It was your fault I died!"* Tremors coursed down his long fingers at the thought. Why was this happening?  
  
It wasn't until he heard a soft, muffled sound from the bedrooms that he realized a presence was missing from this nightmare. The back room burst open and young Adam Larabee exploded into the kitchen.  
  
"Momma!" His loud piercing shout stabbed into Buck's skull but he sat transfixed, stunned at the mere sight of the boy, so full of life and innocence, so very much alive.  
  
Sarah put a silencing finger to her lips. "Shush now, Uncle Buck needs ya tae be quiet."  
  
Adam's eyes widened upon hearing Buck's name and immediately scanned the room for his favorite pseudo-uncle. He found Buck quickly and catapulted himself into the man's arms. "Uncle Buck!"  
  
Buck held the tiny figure numbly, his arms automatically closing about the squirming form.  
  
"Adam," Sarah scolded. "Quietly."  
  
Buck, operating more on instinct and memory now, waved aside her temper. "It's all right, Sarah." Surprisingly, Buck's voice didn't break as he hugged Adam tighter, feeling the reality of the boy, burying his face in the straw-like hair that smelled of grass and saddlewood soap.  
  
"What happen'd, Uncle Buck?" Adam squirmed back to look at the man he loved almost as much as his own father, reaching out but not touching the injury.  
  
Buck blinked through tears that filled his eyes again. The sight of the boy drove away all thoughts of hell and nightmares and demons. This smiling child made it impossible, so utterly ridiculous a notion. He ran quivering fingers through Adam's short hair, sudden joy engulfing his heart. This boy, this small, adoring boy--such pure, genuine love flowed from him. There was no way this was a demon. Buck clutched Adam to his chest again, the boy's name falling off the grown man's lips in a fumbling, muted near sob. The small arms instinctively encircled his neck, clinging tightly like narrow vines entangling a sturdy tree.  
  
*It's real. Oh God, it's real,* Buck cried silently. *I'm here and they're alive! Chris is whole!* Tears flowed freely down his face and he didn't care. Adam Larabee provided the anchor that ground Buck to this reality.  
  
Sarah noticed the change in Buck with alarm. Dropping the potato and the knife, quickly wiping the remnants on her apron, she rushed over. Buck stood abruptly, Adam still perched on his hip. He grasped the smaller woman in a warm embrace. "Sarah girl!" he exclaimed with sheer unadulterated elation.  
  
Sarah gasped in surprise. She hadn't expected this. "Buck! What are ya doin'?"  
  
He spun them about, Sarah falling against him, Adam squealing with delight at the game. The huge grin plastered across Buck's face made Sarah smile as well, although he could tell she was terribly confused by his rampant mood swings. She gazed up into his moist, laughing eyes that she probably knew as well as her husband's. It must have been that look that finally eased her mind. He was acting more like the old Buck she knew from before.  
  
"I just can't believe it, Sarah!"  
  
Perplexed but laughing, she asked, "Can't believe what?"  
  
He stopped dancing them around in a circle and gazed down at her. His mind cried out, *You're alive!* but he didn't say that aloud. Instead he pointed out the obvious. "I'm alive!" His lips curved up even further at his own private joke.  
  
Sarah shook her head humorously. "And yer very lucky tae be so."  
  
The door flew open and Chris rushed in, his face flushed from exertion. He had run from the corral when he heard the commotion inside the house. "What's going on? Buck, you all right?" His own face was lit with bewilderment.  
  
Sarah laughed, extracting herself from Buck's boisterous embrace. "I think he be feelin' better."  
  
Chris crossed his arms, a smile playing easily about his face. "I can see that." He nodded with satisfaction. "Good." Relieved, Chris finally relaxed.  
  
Buck turned to Chris, his grin growing deeper, his eyes sparkling. He laid a gentle hand on Chris' shoulder. "Sorry, pard. Didn't mean to give you all such a scare."  
  
"What did you do, Uncle Buck?" Adam insisted.  
  
"I apparently tried to ride Dorcha," Buck informed the lad.  
  
"Apparently?" Chris exclaimed more out of disbelief than anger, setting his hat on a wooden peg by the door. "What do you mean apparently? I saw you fly off that horse head first."  
  
"Well, I don't rightly remember that incident." Truthfully, he didn't. That hadn't happened in any past he could remember. In fact, he had triumphantly ridden that mare in the past and Montoya had been a happy man.  
  
Sarah had named the hellion Dorcha Nighean, or Dark Daughter in Gaelic, when it was born and the beast had happily lived up to its name. It was the one filly by Chris' ebony stallion and she had fetched a fine price over the border.  
  
Chris shook his head. Sarah commented from the kitchen where she had retreated once again. "Is that a good thing, memory loss?"  
  
"In Buck's case, probably," Chris shot back over his shoulder. He unbuckled his chap's bindings and slid them off his legs as he cast a grin at Buck.  
  
"I resent that," Buck retorted but laughed. Then he sobered for a moment. It was just like old times, joking with Chris. It felt at once wonderful and strange. He was amazed at how easily he fell back into the habit. He had missed it.  
  
* * *  
  
Suppertime was as Buck had always remembered, full of love, laughter and Sarah's fine cooking. Stabbing another hefty chunk of stew meat, Buck waved it at Chris. "Lord, I forgot how good this woman cooks!"  
  
Chris snorted through his buttermilk, a singular vice started by his wife. "It's only been twelve hours since breakfast, Buck. You can't remember the pile of pancakes, eggs and bacon you put away?"  
  
"Of course, I remember breakfast," Buck responded, quickly covering his mistake. It wouldn't pay to keep harping on missing events. It's not like they were missing exactly anyway. It had been years after all. There was no way Buck could remember what they had had for breakfast this day, not that he would tell Chris that. Otherwise, next thing he'd know Chris would drag him to a doctor announcing Buck's strange delusion to the world. Buck shuddered. He couldn't have that. He watched his friend from across the table, noting the easy way Chris fit into this world that by right should have been his. He saw the man's hand snake unconsciously toward's Sarah's who grasped it across the table, smiling gently at her husband, content and at peace. This *was* where Chris  
  
belonged.  
  
Drawing in a steadying breath, Buck glanced away. He pretty much concluded that this was just a dream. He was probably lying somewhere under that damn oak tree with a frantic JD hovering nearby. He felt sorry for the kid since JD would have a hell of a time dragging Buck back to town. But Buck believed that as soon as he went to bed in this dream world, he'd most likely wake up in Four Corners. So for now all he had to do was relax and enjoy this brief resurgence of the past. It wasn't exactly unpleasant. Moments like these were the ones he cherished anyway. The ones he wished Chris could find the strength to bear. Maybe this was his body's way of letting him reminisce  
  
again since he couldn't do it with Chris anymore. The constant rejection of Chris' friendship had obviously been just too much to handle and this was his mind's way of solving the problem.  
  
Looking back down towards his food, he noticed Adam deftly spooning some of his unwanted peas onto Buck's still nearly full plate. The boy hated peas. Buck raised an eyebrow at the unsuspecting child and cleared his throat. Startled, Adam jerked with a soft cry, looking up at Buck and dropping some of the peas in the process. Caught in the act, the boy froze, spoon in hand, as all eyes centered on him.  
  
"Adam," Chris scolded, his voice rising an octave or two as evidence of his displeasure. "What do you think you're doing?"  
  
"Uh..." The boy fumbled for an excuse, glancing quickly around at each of the adults' accusing glares.  
  
Buck, as always, came to his rescue. "Young man, are you stealing *my* peas?"  
  
Adam twisted sharply in his seat to stare at his uncle. "What?"  
  
Buck offered a sly wink to the child as he reached for Adam's plate. "Just because you finished your peas don't mean you can steal mine." He scraped all of Adam's peas onto his own plate. "Gimme back my peas."  
  
Sarah stifled a giggle beneath her hand and looked away as Adam sat there stunned and a mite confused.  
  
Buck continued with his charade. "Slow eaters are always such a target," he commented to the rest of the table with a slow, deliberate shake of his head as if conversing with ladies at a social club.  
  
Chris couldn't let that one pass by. "If you'd stop jawin' all the time, you might be able to keep hold of your peas." Chris barely could hide a grin himself now as Sarah's muffled laugh grew louder.  
  
Buck relished the moment. Chris knew Adam too well to believe the boy'd be swiping peas from anyone's plate, but it was wonderful for Buck to see the sheer amusement on his two friends faces as they watched their flabbergasted son, not to mention Buck's desperate attempts to protect him. Buck once had had the ability to make Chris laugh, the scoundrel's humor always honest and heartfelt. He had always entertained the family with his antics, particularly with Adam. It was the one thing he'd never tire of.  
  
Buck handed back the boy's plate, now completely devoid of green peas. "There! That'll teach you."  
  
Adam stared up at Buck with stunned, saucer-shaped eyes that slowly gave way to adoration. For a moment the boy's eyes reminded Buck of JD and he caught his breath as a disturbing stab struck his chest.  
  
Oblivious, Chris shook his head humorously, stealing a curious glance at his wife who quickly got up from the table, the muted sound of her laughter falling back toward his ears.  
  
"Thanks, Uncle Buck," Adam stammered until he noticed that Buck had stopped smiling and was staring at him with a pained expression. Realizing his blunder, he quickly covered his mistake. "Uh...I mean... darn, Uncle Buck. I sure did want those peas." Feigned disappointment oozed from him.  
  
Suddenly a large wooden spoon thumped down onto Adam's plate, green peas spilling everywhere, attracting everyone's attention. His mother stood over him with a huge pot in her other hand, brimming with the vile vegetable. "Thank goodness I made extra," she deadpanned to her son. Adam's groan was so loud that the table finally burst into peals of laughter and hysterics.  
  
"Sorry, pard," Buck offered to the dismayed boy, the only figure not laughing. He caught an escaping pea and hid it under his plate. Sarah held out another ladle of peas to Buck, which he waved off desperately. "I've got all the peas I can manage at the moment. Thank you kindly."  
  
Chris stammered through his mirth to get the next sentence out. "B-Buck... when will you learn... not to get involved with other people's problems?"  
  
Buck's smile faltered slightly and then he shrugged ruffling Adam's hair in a consoling manner. "Just as soon as you do, old pard."  
  
Sarah sniffed her disbelieving opinion on that subject. "That'll be the day."  
  
Smiling, Chris picked up some of the empty dinner plates and brought them over to the wash bucket just as Sarah returned the pea pot to the fire. Chris wrapped his arms around her narrow waist and kissed her soundly, enjoying the feel of her in his arms. Gazing down at her, he said, "I thought you liked the fact that I'm a good Samaritan now."  
  
"Aye, I do but the two of ya couldn't keep yer nose out o' trouble if the Lord hisself forbade ya. I'm not always going tae be around tae keep ya on the straight and narrow, Christopher Larabee."  
  
Chris gently brushed a cloying ringlet of her auburn hair to the side. "This will be the last remuda over the border this year. Then you'll have me all to yourself. Will that satisfy you?"  
  
A smile crept slowly onto Sarah's lips. "Aye, that'll do."  
  
Chris kissed her again before releasing her and turned back to the table only to find Buck's eyes watching them, a look of despondency evident on his face. Chris regarded the younger man. "Tomorrow's a long day, Buck. Maybe you should turn in." It was obvious Buck's swift mood changes unnerved him.  
  
Buck made a conscious effort to stop his lamenting. It wasn't doing anyone any good. He should just enjoy this time with his friends, let himself believe in this sweet madness. It was a gift from Heaven and therefore, it shouldn't be wasted, he chided silently, shrugging off his melancholy.  
  
"I'm fine, Chris." he assured the older man, taking in the warm, homey atmosphere, something that had been missing from his life for the last three years. Adam poked dejectedly at his new pile of peas; Sarah puttered about the kitchen; and Chris stood tall in the center, lighting up his favorite cheroot, content and sober.  
  
Offering a smile, Buck gathered up a surprised Adam and carried him off to the boy's bedroom. "Come on, Adam. You still got that dime novel I gave you?"  
  
"You mean *Bad Day at Rock Ridge*?"  
  
Buck had given Adam so many dime novels over the course of the years that he hoped there was a new one still lying around somewheres that they hadn't finished reading yet. It appeared he was right. "That'll do, pard. Let's go do some readin'." The two quickly disappeared into the back part of the house.  
  
While Adam rumaged around for the book, Buck was drawn to the crack in the door, watching Chris and Sarah perform their usual evening ritual in the othe room. He was mesmorized by it, finding their simple actions comforting. Chris had truly been meant for family life.  
  
Sarah stood over the table, staring down at her son's unfinished plate of peas with a frown. Buck noticed the exasperated twist of her mouth. She was annoyed that once again Buck Wilmington had rescued her son from the clutches of a healthy meal. She picked up the rest of the dishes from the table and continued with her cleaning while Chris went to the fire and removed the heated water, pouring some of it into the wash bucket for his wife.  
  
Sarah voiced a concern that obviously hadn't escaped her attention either this evening. "Buck's still actin' strange, Christopher. Ya think he'll be all right?"  
  
Chris smiled reassuringly at his wife. "He'll be just fine. The fall probably scared the bejeebes out of him. Serves him right too. He came within a hair's breadth of separating his head from his shoulders today. I just hope it woke him up some. For a grown man he acts too much like Adam sometimes."  
  
He brushed close by his wife on purpose, sliding the width of his body slowly across hers, his voice teasing. "Maybe he'll think twice of mounting a filly with a mind of her own." A silly, lopsided grin played across his face and Sarah slapped at him with a warm, soapy hand.  
  
"Ha! That'll be one lesson Buck Wilmington will never learn!" She sneered back at her husband and added, "And you neither obviously."  
  
Chris comfortingly wrapped his strong arms around his wife's firm belly. "At least I know enough to stick to one filly only," he said in her ear, his blood rising steadily to a boil as his wife's body molded to his. He pressed his hips into hers, his head dipping to nip at the small patch of flesh on her shoulder that peeked through her thick, dark hair.  
  
"See that ya always do," she commanded though her voice was but a lingering sigh. Sarah leaned back into him, covering his hands with her own.  
  
Embarrassed, Buck could take no more. It was agonizing to watch them so happy and content with a life that they would soon no longer have. And all because of him. He turned away, rubbing a hard hand over his anguished face. A second later Adam barreled into him, clutching the located dime novel.  
  
"I found it, Uncle Buck!"  
  
"That's fine, pard! Where you want to read it?"  
  
Adam shrugged. "I dunno, but I sure want Da to hear how good I read."  
  
Buck smiled down at the boy. If Adam wanted to read for his Pa who was Buck to deny him. "Sure ya can, Adam." He tousled the boy's hair and then opened the door wide. Buck and Adam scampered back into the main room. Chris and Sarah were still locked into the same position Buck had last observed.  
  
"Mamma, can I read aloud tonight?"  
  
Chris and Sarah exchanged frustrated grins as Sarah quickly straightened from Chris' embrace and then resumed her chores. "Of course, ya can, lad. I want to see how yer readin' is doin' anyway."  
  
Chris scowled momentarily in mock aggravation at a sheepish Buck, indicating how ill-timed his intrusion had been.  
  
Buck realized what he had interrupted. A pang of regret swept quickly through him and he shrugged helplessly at Chris. However, to Buck's mind, if this was his only night in the past, then he didn't want to be separated from any of them this evening. He wanted it to last a while longer. He took a chair close to the fire as Adam crawled onto his lap, the boy settling himself in the niche of the big man's arm with deliberate concentration.  
  
Sarah and Chris quickly finished their tidying and settled down on the settee which Sarah had cleaned prior to supper. Holding a steaming cup of coffee in his right hand, Chris curled his other arm possessively around his wife as she laid her head on his shoulder, relieved to finally be relaxing. It had been a hard week. Chris stretched his long, thin legs out in front of him, also completely willing to let the tension of the day fade far away.  
  
Adam opened the dime novel and began to spin the tale of heroes and villains. "*Young Willy dove for the floorboards as Sheriff Harkaway's mighty '45 delivered justice to the wicked wretches that had helped destroy the peaceful life of the town of Sunny Mills,"* Adam recited with sheer delight, his small body wriggling on Buck's lap in his excitement. *"Harkaway's deep voice boomed out his sermon as he towered protectively over the small form of his best friend. "No more will the likes of you threaten a sweet soul on the face of this Earth. I send you to the depths of Hades with the rest of your vile kind." With the flexing of his index finger, Harkaway's weapon spoke deadlier words than its master, granting his spoken promise. Bodies crumpled to the ground as their life's blood soaked into the sawdust.*"  
  
Buck and Chris exchanged humored grins, chuckling silently at the exaggerated words. The gunfight in the story wasn't anything like it was in reality. The two men knew that all too well. Chris' expression sobered slightly and Buck had the feeling that the ex-gunfighter was thinking of the past. What would Chris' life have been if he hadn't met Sarah when he did? His skill with a gun had been steadily approaching a renowned status, one that he hadn't sought but had had thrust upon him. Thanks to a hot-headed spirit, he had forever been tangled up in fights much to his wife's chagrin, but regardless of what she might think, a quick gun was a handy thing to possess in the thick of battle. Now the weapon lay wrapped in oiled linen in a hope chest by the kitchen, dormant and almost forgotten. There was no need for it any more.  
  
Buck's eyes drifted across the room, settling once again on the loving couple on the sofa. Buck smiled as he watched them. As if sensing where her husband's mind was drifting, Sarah shifted slightly against Chris, drawing him away from the past. Chris always had the annoying habit of immersing himself into memories, most of them bad ones. Worse, he was inclined to stay there, musing over moot points that he could no longer change. It was a constant battle for Sarah to distract him back to the present, one that she had yet to lose.  
  
Sarah's fingers found Chris' as they dangled off her shoulder and they entwined almost unconsciously, her forehead resting just below his cheek. He gently placed a feather kiss upon her brow, easing his own head upon her pillow of soft hair. She closed her eyes. They were content here. His past was behind them now and it was her job to make sure all he thought of was his family and his new life. She did it well.  
  
Buck shook his head. She *had* done it well. God, it was enough to drive a sane man over the edge.  
  
He had seen them intertwine like that many times. Suddenly, Buck understood Chris' anguish when he remembered times like these. After all these years, Buck had forgotten certain scenes. Now refreshed by this all too vivid dream, things were different. Maybe Chris' memory was so much more clearer than Buck's, for seeing it now, like this, the grief ran deeper inside Buck than ever before. He quickly turned away trying to breathe through the agony that stabbed at him so.  
  
Thankfully, it was Adam who brought him back to the moment at hand.  
  
*"...Harkaway strode across the rotting floorboards to grasp the last living villain by his checkered shirt...,"* Adam paused, struggling, "...um.... uh...." He twisted in his seat attracting Buck's attention by shoving the book in the man's face. "What's this word, Buck?"  
  
Buck took the book, moving a tiny finger off of the troublesome word. "It's ..." Buck studied it for a second. It was one he himself rarely heard used in everyday conversation. "Valiantly. It means ... brave, courageous sort of." He glanced up at Chris and Sarah to see if they agreed. Sarah nodded and Buck breathed a sigh of relief, handing the book back to Adam. "Heck," Buck said, remembering at the last minute to watch his language around the boy like he used to, "this guy uses bigger words than Ezra."  
  
Chris frowned. "Who's Ezra?"  
  
Buck's head snapped up guiltily. "Uh...just... um... some dandy up in Eagle Bend," he lamely covered.  
  
Sarah snickered. "A dandy? What on earth is a dandy doin' in Eagle Bend?"  
  
"Well, he's more like a gambler."  
  
Chris' eyes narrowed in confusion. "When were you up there? Last month was the only time we were in Eagle Bend. I didn't see you talking to no gambler."  
  
Buck scrambled to find a suitable answer. Damn Chris and his ever observant nature. *Can't a man spin a yarn without a person questioning every aspect of it?* He sighed and lied through his teeth. "I didn't say I talked to him, only that I saw him in town. Overheard some of those big words he was throwin' around."  
  
"Yet you're on a first name basis with him," Chris pointed out.  
  
"He introduced himself to a couple of ladies and all I remember is the man's first name, okay?" Buck ended with an exasperated huff.  
  
Chris shrugged nonchalantly, apparantly enjoying the aggravation he was causing his friend. His mouth twisted around a hidden smile--after all, turnabout was fair play. Buck had a feeling he was now paying for keeping Sarah and him from a romantic interlude.  
  
The rest of the evening passed by slowly but satisfyingly. Eventually Sarah called a halt to the story and chased young Adam off to get ready for bed. Buck quickly volunteered to settle him down much to a weary Sarah's relief though a part of her still fretted about Buck's injury.  
  
Before the boy ran for the bedroom, she called Adam over and made sure he would behave himself and fall quickly asleep so Uncle Buck would not be troubled. The boy only grinned at her and with a sigh, Sarah let him go.  
  
Sarah herself was ready for sleep, stifling a yawn behind her slim hand. Buck watched her as she made the final preparations around the house, making sure all food was put away and all the clean dishes were shelved. Buck helped her and he had to laugh at her surprised and suspicious look. Buck relished the moment. It was out of the ordinary for him that was for sure but this small gesture settled his troubled feelings.  
  
By the time they had finished, Adam had finished his own bedtime preperations and came out to launch himself into Buck's waiting arms. He was carried off to bed with much fanfare and laughter. He tucked Adam in tight and then scooted the boy over to make room as he held up the dime novel with an impish grin. Adam eagerly returned it and settled beside Buck, eager to continue the story.  
  
Buck heard Chris came back in from his momentary excursion outside. He glanced out through the bedroom door and watched as Chris closed the front door. The tall man stretched out weary muscles. Sarah came and stood in front of him so close that when his arms dropped they fell around her, instinctively encircling her.  
  
Chris' eyes filled swiftly with passion again at the sight of his sleepy wife. His head tipped towards her and fell upon her full lips with a thorough kiss that left her breathless and bruised. Pulling back slightly, the tip of her tongue brushed quickly over her swollen lips, teasing and inviting. She wrapped her arms tighter about her husband's waist, her breasts pressing into his hard muscled chest.  
  
He whispered something feverishly in her ear and she smiled. Chris took her hand and led her to the bedroom but then she paused, glancing over at Adam's room. She checked the time on the mantel clock. "Adam should be asleep by now but Buck hasn't come out."  
  
Chris, not really seeing the crisis, tugged on her hand. "I'm sure he's fine."  
  
Sarah smiled at her husband's impatience. "I'll just check on them." Sighing, Chris followed her as she quietly opened wider their son's bedroom door.  
  
Buck was lying on the bed beside the boy, both fast asleep. Buck's head was at a sharp upward angle against the headboard while Adam was sprawled over Buck's slowly rising and falling chest. Buck was snoring quietly, one arm draped protectively around the boy, the forgotten dime novel puddled on the floor beneath Buck's other hand that dangled mere inches above the floor.  
  
Chris made a move to wake Buck. His friend couldn't possibly be comfortable in that position. Sarah stopped him with a single touch and shook her head. Moving forward, she lifted a warm blanket off the end of the bed and gently placed it over the two still figures. With one final look, she quietly led her husband out and into their own bedroom.  
  
Buck opened his eyes and watched them disappear. He placed a big hand over Adam's small head. God, how he had missed all this.  
  
* * *  
  
The sunlight slipped in through a window and crept over Buck who turned his head slightly away to avoid it's glaring eye. That simple movement set into motion a cascade of pain from the tip of his head to the base of his feet. Groaning loudly, he dragged a hand to hold the ache inside his skull, his fingers brushing the huge lump on his forehead instead. Even that barest touch felt like his fingers were dipped in acid. Shifting carefully, he heard another quiet moan beside him. He opened bleary eyes to see a tousled blond head resting inches below him.  
  
Adam.  
  
Buck's hand unconsciously moved to touch the lad, smiling. Then it hit him. He was still in the past.  
  
He straightened abruptly. Adam murmured something grumpily in his sleep as Buck moved him, lifting the slight form back to his side of the bed. Rising carefully so as not to increase the steady pulse of his headache, he moved to the small, narrow window set almost to eye level.  
  
He was still in the valley. The huge windmill still spun lazily in the soft morning breeze. The sun had just broken over the distant peaks, bathing the Larabee homestead in the glorious light of day ... but it was a day less than a week from tragedy.  
  
No! Buck shook his head, his blood thudding against the interior of his skull. He couldn't live through that again. He needed to go home to Four Corners. His breath came short and strained as he turned his head to look at the innocent form asleep in the bed, dreaming of moments precious only to little boys--pants pockets bulging with living things of interest; bobbing fishing poles in crystal clear water streams; and dappled ponies grazing placidly in fields of green--all the things that would be ripped from Adam in just a few short days.  
  
Buck's eyes burned smartly as the horror of it washed over him. He was trapped in a living nightmare. He spun away from the boy and stumbled out into the main part of the house. The living room and kitchen were empty but through the Larabee's ajar bedroom door he could see Sarah straightening the bed. Buck had no idea where Chris was, probably outside already working. Sarah moved toward the door, her chore finished, but before she could see him, Buck flew outside.  
  
Chest heaving, he stumbled into the barn. Slamming the heavy wooden door behind him, he sucked in deep breaths of crisp morning air. Every smell, every sound was so familiar, bringing back memory after memory. Ones that he had hidden away because of their anguished content. These were the ones from which Chris could never escape, the ones that drove him to hell and straight into the bottle.  
  
Plunging the heels of his hands deep into his eyes, Buck fought for control. His hands slipped up into his hair, his fists clenching it by the roots, drawing more pain in an effort to drown out his sorrow and his memories.  
  
Eventually his breathing evened, his eyes slipped slowly open as he regained some control and finally caught a glimpse of where he was. Horses stood in the stalls, their huge dark eyes watching him curiously. He saw his grey near the back. Grabbing a bridle off the rack he slipped it on his horse. Leading him quietly out the back in hopes of avoiding Chris, he mounted bareback and galloped for the treeline.  
  
For once luck was with him, but upon reaching the edge he didn't pull up. Instead he rode his grey deeper into the woods, almost madcap again, as if daring himself to search out another low branch in a desperate, insane attempt to escape the hell he was now in. For Hell it had to be. To be punished by watching his friends' lives go up in flames again was a product of Hades itself. No living soul could endure this torture.  
  
The reins slipped from his limp hands. He didn't care anymore where he was going because it would never be far enough from this pain he was feeling. The grey eventually slowed without any control from its slumping rider and jogged to a halt beside the river that wound itself lazily around the huge valley. Buck slid down his horse's flank and fell to his knees, his anger slowly swelling, his fists digging desperately into the soil with claw-like hands.  
  
He threw back his head and screamed into the air, fury scraping his throat raw as it erupted. "Why? God damn you! WHY?" His voice thundered into the dazzling blue sky partially hidden by the trees. "It wasn't my fault! I didn't mean for it to happen!" he shouted hoarsely.  
  
His cry spooked several birds from their perches in the crisscrossing branches above him. His horse skittered sideways at the commotion but didn't leave the small glen, watching its owner with wary eyes.  
  
Buck slumped again, his hands falling limply to his sides. His last words were pleading and tormented, "Please, don't let it happen again. I couldn't stand it." He fell forward as the momentary surge of wrath fled him, leaving his body wasted and weak.  
  
He didn't know how long he lay hunched over like that but eventually small sounds reached his ears and slipped unobtrusively into his consciousness. The sound of birds conversing, the sound of the river rushing haphazardly by over smooth rocks, the sound of his grey grazing contentedly again nearby. They comforted him, allowing him to concentrate on something other than his grief.  
  
He pushed himself upright, drawing in a shaky breath. Casting his eyes to the gentle river flowing beside him, he remembered a time long since past when this small glade had been a haven for him. It was a place where young women had learned about "nature," and Buck had found relief in the softness of woman's touch following a long day's labor.  
  
Standing, he walked to the river's edge and gazed deep into the murmuring clear waters, constant and unstoppable like time itself. A recent memory stirred and he glanced downstream. It hadn't been far from here where Chris, Nathan, Josiah and himself had found the bodies of those that had murdered Sarah and Adam. It seemed like ages ago now.  
  
A thought began to take root in Buck. He started walking as if in a daze down along the bank. The grey, noticing that its rider was leaving, moved slowly after him, calmly chewing on the bit of grass it had found.  
  
Following a tributary back towards the ranch, Buck came to the place he remembered from the present. Of course, the bodies were not there but they would be in less than a week's time, which meant that here in the past the men were possibly in the area already waiting for Fowler to hire them. Buck's eyes drew to mere slits of hatred and determination.  
  
Cletus Fowler was here too.  
  
The muscles in Buck's jaw grew taunt at the thought of the pig that had brought such ruin to a good man with the swiftness of a lightening bolt.  
  
Buck had found his purpose. He was going to find Cletus Fowler--now, before he could commit the sin of murder and rip from Chris Larabee all that he held dear. Buck was also going to tear from Fowler the name of his employer, the coward who ordered Chris' death and in so doing, authorized Fowler to kill Sarah and Adam instead.  
  
A swell of cruel satisfaction rose in Buck at the thought of that pleasure. If he was stuck here in the past, then by God, he wasn't going to just sit by and let events run their course! He was gonna stop it here, now, regardless of whether it would change the future or not! It would be his own absolution!  
  
He grabbed the reins of the grey who was quietly dozing beside its owner. It jerked its head up, startled by the sudden motion but seconds later placidly followed the man as he walked up the slope towards the ranch.  
  
Chris was brushing down a gelding in the paddock as Buck emerged from the treeline, leading his grey. Chris watched him intently. Buck saw Sarah standing on the porch looking at him also. He realized that both had probably been fretting about his aprupt absence. Chris leaned for a moment across the gelding's back, observing his friend and then nodded. Buck nodded back. Smirking, Buck knew that he had just made it under the wire. Another minute or two and Chris would have saddled that gelding and come looking for him.  
  
Buck noted the quick darting figure of Adam, who upon seeing Buck's return, ran towards him and bounced excitedly in front of him. Buck knew exactly what the boy was going to ask since Adam had most likely asked his father the same thing not more than five minutes ago. Buck picked up the boy and swung him on the back of the grey, leading them in the rest of the way to the ranch.  
  
Buck gently listened to Adam's joyous laugh. The boy loved riding. He was gonna be a natural horseman much like his father... He caught himself bitterly. If the boy had a future that is.  
  
"What's the matter, Uncle Buck?" The boy had stopped laughing and was watching the older man carefully, puzzled by his uncommon somber mood.  
  
Buck exhaled sharply, shoving all his morbid thoughts to the side for the sake of the boy. "Just thinkin', pard."  
  
"'Bout what?"  
  
"'Bout how life can sometimes throw a man."  
  
Adam thought about that for a moment and then remembered something. "Momma always says that 'life is what you make it'."  
  
Buck turned quickly to the boy sitting slightly above him, a surprised smile creeping over his lips. "Meaning if you don't like something, change it?"  
  
Adam shrugged. "I guess."  
  
"You've got an ol' soul, pard, you know that?"  
  
Puzzled, Adam asked. "What's that?"  
  
Buck's hand perched gently on Adam's knee. "That you're wise beyond your years."  
  
"Momma mostly says I'm pre...precocious." He struggled over the word.  
  
Buck laughed. "That too, I guess." He smiled at the boy, finding his presence a calming influence, a gentle reassurance that he had made the right decision. Sarah and Adam had always been there for him and he would not fail them. This was an opportunity to fill the empty space inside for both himself and Chris. Nothing would prevent him from saving their lives this time out. Buck headed over to Chris, eager to finish the day's chores. There were things that he needed to do.  
  
* * *  
  
The rest of the day passed quickly for Buck. Chris kept him busy with numerous projects around the ranch, some of which he remembered from the past and wished he didn't have to repeat. Others he didn't remember, but with each unfamiliar occurrence, Buck became more and more confident that he was right. He could change the direction of the tragic path they were on. He could make a difference. As they were shoring up a weak beam in the hay loft, Buck put his plan into play.  
  
He heaved on the thick cord of rope that shifted the new supporting beam into place while Chris used a mallet to hammer it in tightly. When it was done and Chris was out of the way, Buck eased back on the rope, listening with satisfaction as the weight settled securely on the new foundation.  
  
Chris removed his bandanna and wiped the sweat from his face, exhaling wearily. Even with the cool breath of fall moving in, the loft was hot and sweltering. He opened a few buttons on his shirt and pulled the material away from his saturated skin.  
  
Buck coiled the rope slowly about his arm and then commented, "Don't set a place for me at dinner tonight."  
  
Chris glanced at him, grinning devilishly. "Meeting your female dandy friend Ezra?" He tugged on the beam to test its securement.  
  
Buck balked a moment and then laughed at the ridiculous notion of his friend. "Hell no!" Then he sobered. "I've just got other things I need to attend to."  
  
That quiet voice of Buck's set Chris immediately to wondering. It usually meant trouble in one way or another. "Like what?" he fished.  
  
"Things," Buck insisted, desperately trying to skirt the issue. Finally, he gave into what he knew would ease Chris' mind, flashing that winning smile that had become his mask. "All right! You got me. I'm going to see my lady friend."  
  
Chris eyed his old friend for a moment more not quite believing the other man's words. Thankfully, he let it go. "Will you be back by morning? I need you to move the remuda to the eastern pasture before we leave. The grazing's better there."  
  
"I'll be here."  
  
Chris nodded, knowing that he could always count on Buck. He regarded his friend. "Don't have too much fun tonight." He slapped Buck playfully on the shoulder and then moved to inspect their work. "I need you serious and sober."  
  
"I've never been more serious and sober in my life, Chris," he murmured as Chris moved out of earshot.  
  
Sarah's voice startled them, calling up from below. "I've brought ya something to drink. Come on down."  
  
Buck used the back of his sleeve to mop at his sodden brow. "Be right there."  
  
Chris was still checking the securement on the new support beam they fitted into place. Buck shook his head at his friend's fastidiousness and came down the ladder to get his refreshment. It was fresh cool lemonade. Buck downed his glass in four huge swallows, a few sticky drops sliding down his chin to disappear into his collar. "Damn, that's good."  
  
Sarah raised her eyebrow and poured him a second glass. "I kept it sittin' in the well outside tae keep it cold." She set the pitcher down and offered him a ham biscuit.  
  
Buck took it and wolfed it down. He had forgotten how hungry hard work made him. He was getting soft in Four Corners.  
  
Sarah chuckled at his boyish antics and then paled as a flush of nausea assaulted her. She placed a hand on one of the stall rails and steadied herself.  
  
Buck was at her side in an instant. "What's the matter, Sarah?"  
  
She drew in a deep breath as the moment passed. "Nothin' tae worry yerself about, Buck." She hid a secret smile.  
  
Confusion ran rampant across Buck's face. "What do you mean? Are you alright?"  
  
She patted his arm tenderly. "Of course, I'm alright. It's the natural order of things when yer in my condition. Just caught me by surprise, that's all."  
  
Buck's jaw dropped open, biscuit dough clearly visible in his cheeks. "Your...condition?" he mumbled around the food.  
  
Sarah held a quieting finger to her lips. "Chris doesna know yet. I'm waiting for the right moment tae tell him. Can ya keep a secret, Buck Wilmington?"  
  
Buck laughed and then lifted her in a huge hug, his elation unbounded. "What wonderful news!"  
  
She giggled and then patted his arms off her as Chris came down the ladder.  
  
"What's the fuss?" the blond man inquired, leaping the last few rungs to the bottom.  
  
Buck let go of Sarah, covering his massive grin with another bite of the biscuit. He waved one at Chris. "She made biscuits for us."  
  
Chris laughed. "Leave it to Buck to be overjoyed at the simple prospect of a meal." He kissed a sheepish Sarah on her forehead and then reached for his glass.  
  
Buck could tell Sarah was just bursting with the news but then Adam's shout from the house distracted her.  
  
"Well, I've got things tae do." She gathered her skirts, winked at Buck, and left the men to their light meal.  
  
As she was walking away, Chris took a moment to enjoy the sharp sashay of her bustled hips. Then he stuffed two biscuits into a napkin and climbed back up the ladder intent now on getting back to work. "Let's go, Buck. We're losing daylight."  
  
Buck was also watching Sarah walk away when it struck him. She was pregnant. Sarah Larabee had been pregnant when she died. He went weak in the knees and nearly thudded down to the hay strewn floor. He grasped the same rail Sarah had. "Oh my god," he breathed. They never knew. She had never told Chris before...before.... *Oh my god.* He struggled to breathe normally. Suddenly the stakes were much higher and Buck's face paled almost as white as Sarah's had been moments before.  
  
* * *  
  
With more reason than ever, Buck took off for Eagle Bend every evening in hopes of finding at least one of the men who were responsible for the murders, the man with the single silver spur, the half breed Blackfox, or even Fowler himself. But for the last two nights it had been nothing but futile. Eagle Bend was as empty as a ghost town in terms of the scum Buck hunted.  
  
He had been existing on about three hours sleep a night. Chris had steadily grown annoyed with Buck dozing off in the middle of the afternoon, but he hadn't stopped Buck from going into Eagle Bend each night, at least not yet.  
  
Buck drank reticently from the warm beer as he leaned his chair back against the wall, wearily scanning the crowd in Eagle Bend's solitary saloon, The Sandpiper, as he had done so often this past week. The same old, dirty, wary faces stared back at him or stared into their disappearing whiskey, intent on minding their own business.  
  
Swallowing his own stale drink, Buck's frustration grew with each passing moment. He was running out of time. Time that Chris and his family didn't have. Buck had assumed that Fowler had hired men from the saloon. Least, that had been the case with Blackfox, but maybe that wasn't the case with the others.  
  
Expelling a loud, disgusted breath, Buck dragged himself to his feet, letting the chair drop heavily back to the floor. He slammed the beer mug harshly upon the table so that the tepid liquid sloshed onto the worn surface. Bored onlookers glanced his way as Buck strode out of the saloon and walked onto the smokey street. The huge dense clouds from the fires cast eerie shadows around the dimly lit streets. Despite the smoke, the night air felt good compared to the stale air in the bar. He could taste the hint of a storm in its aftertaste. He looked up to see only a few stars peeking through the veil of thickening clouds.  
  
Angrily stifling a yawn, Buck stretched, his back audibly creaking with the effort after the long hours spent slouched in the chair. He continued his scan of the few residents out on the street. None of whom were the men he was looking for so he headed again for the stable on the off chance that Fowler's big grey might be stabled there, revealing that the hired assassin was indeed in town. After all, the man had no idea that someone hunted him.  
  
At first, that thought had given Buck a sense of deep pleasure, his mind continually replaying with exacting detail what he was going to do to the man when he caught up with him. Fowler would pay for the suffering he had wrought and he would pay dearly, that Buck swore. But now, after two days of desperate searching, Buck was close to frantic at his inability to find him.  
  
If no one showed up in Eagle Bend soon, he would just have to stop Chris from going to Mexico. They would stay at home and protect Sarah and Adam. If Chris became stubborn about it then Buck would stay on his own. The head injury would be just the excuse. He rubbed his lump gingerly. He hadn't decided whether he would or could tell Chris the real truth about the future. His friend would just think him still rattled by the fall, or worse, insane.  
  
He heard a distant sound and it took Buck a moment before he realized what he was hearing. It was a common enough sound but slightly different than what it should be. It was the jangle of spurs but it was missing its usual rhythm. This one was odd.  
  
Then it hit him. It was a single spur! The sound was offbeat due to its missing companion on the other foot.  
  
Buck spun around scanning the streets, centering on the sound. Finally, he saw the man passing the hotel on the opposite boardwalk. Buck held his fervor in check as he leapt off into the street to catch up, even though his every instinct cried to stop the man, threaten him, scare him out of town and out of Chris' life. But that wasn't going to work and Buck knew it. It wouldn't stop Cletus Fowler from trying to kill Chris with Sarah and Adam caught in the process. The head of the operation would still be free, only robbed of the cohorts that Buck knew by sight. Warned of Buck's interference, Fowler would only find new minions, and Buck's job would be that much harder.  
  
Buck would follow this man of the single spur in hopes that he'd lead him to Fowler. Then and only then would Buck let loose his fury. He'd let Fowler live long enough to name his employer and then justice would be served at Buck's righteous and merciless hands.  
  
Slipping into pace behind the man, Buck tried to slow his rapid breathing. Adrenaline flooded his system causing his fingers to twitch spastically over his pistol butt where his hand hovered. The murky light did not reveal the man's identity but that meant nothing to Buck, since as far as Buck knew, most of Fowler's accomplices were just hired drifters. Hell, Fowler himself was a stranger to both Chris and Buck. Neither of them had ever heard of him which meant that whomever had hired Fowler was the hidden man who wanted revenge on Chris for some reason. What had Chris ever done to evoke this kind of evil retribution?  
  
Nothing, Buck chided himself. Whomever it was that had hired Fowler was a sick, perverse individual and deserved nothing but to be on the receiving end of Buck's .45. Chris' life prior to Sarah, though wild and unruly, had never been on the wrong side of the law. Chris' reputation came mainly from never turning the other cheek. He never started a fight, but by God, he always finished them and through most of it Buck was at his side. Buck and Chris were forever getting embroiled in scrape after scrape. Chris was one of those rare individuals who couldn't stand idly by while injustice was done. The odds never seemed to matter to him as long as the rights of those unable to defend themselves were protected. It was a side of Chris that Buck both admired and feared. One of these days it would be his undoing.  
  
Hell, Buck mused, the day was almost here.  
  
Distracted, he almost missed it when the single spur fellow slipped into an alley. He froze, debating his next action. This man was or would soon be in league with a murderer, so following him into a dark alley probably wasn't the wisest thing to do, but the consequences of playing it safe left Buck little choice. Not that he had ever played it safe before. This man would eventually lead him to Fowler; perhaps he was meeting him tonight, at this very moment.  
  
Without another thought, Buck slipped into the darkness of the alley.  
  
He could hear the rhythmic jangling of the man's calling card a short distance ahead of him. Buck carefully maneuvered around some crates and barrels littering the alley, wisely keeping himself hidden in the shadows. He had left his own spurs at the Larabee ranch allowing him to move more silently than his prey.  
  
Of course that didn't mean he had outwitted everyone. He heard a soft footfall behind him and that saved his head from another hard blow. Buck twisted to the side and a pistol handle connected with the meaty part of his shoulder. It staggered him but he didn't go down. Reaching out, he grasped the weapon before it could be turned around. He had the impression of a bulky figure with a strength to match. Wrestling with him, Buck's instinct screamed that he was leaving himself open to attack from the man with the single spur.  
  
Buck had erroneously made the assumption that Fowler had hired the two men separately. As it turned out, the two murdered men in the creek had worked together before.  
  
"What do we have here?" the man with the single spur said. The click of a pistol's hammer ceased Buck's struggling.  
  
"He's been following you since you passed the hotel." The second man, with a long red scar slicing nearly from temple to cheek, removed Buck's pistol from his holster and then pinned his arms behind him.  
  
Buck grunted as his arms were wrenched roughly back and could only watch as the other man's huge fist buried itself with such powerful force into Buck's abdomen that he fell forward, sucking in desperate gulps of precious air. Slumping to his knees, he slipped through the other's grasp who decided not to hold the practically dead weight. The men's cruel laughter crept over him as Buck, his forehead pressing into the dust, glimpsed the sharp reflection of the single silver spur in the dying firelight from the distant street.  
  
"I don't like people following me." The owner of the spur leaned down, his pistol's cold barrel lying on the back of Buck's neck.  
  
Despite the pain in Buck's stomach, a shiver ran down his spine.  
  
"Now why don't you tell me what you find so fascinating 'bout me that you had to follow me down a dark alley? You want to rob me maybe?"  
  
A slow blaze of anger began to burn fervently as the single spur seemed to fill Buck's vision. "I don't want to rob you," he hissed through tightly clenched teeth.  
  
"Then why?" The man insisted, pressing the muzzle harder into Buck's flesh. "You after the bounty on me then?"  
  
"Didn't know there was one," Buck answered honestly though it didn't surprise him in the least.  
  
"Sure you didn't," the scarred one sneered. "Does he have any money on him?"  
  
Rough hands patted his pockets as Buck struggled upright, but an abrupt knee to his side sent him down to the earth again with a groan.  
  
"I was lookin' for someone else," he growled roughly. "I thought you might be going to meet him," Buck insisted, one hand holding himself up off the dirt, the other wrapped protectively around his abdomen. He was winging it now. He had no idea which way he should handle this situation. He couldn't trust these criminals but he doubted they'd trust him either. Either way, he had little choice, if he didn't come up with something fast, he was a dead man.  
  
"And who would that be?"  
  
The scarred one turned to the other. "Look, let's just kill him and be done with it before someone sees us." Scarface was antsy now.  
  
Buck struggled to his knees again, wishing he could stand but soon realized that they weren't going to let him. "The man's name is Fowler. I heard he was hiring for some quick work." Maybe there was a chance that the two outlaws had already made contact with Fowler. By the quick look of surprise in their eyes, Buck knew he was right.  
  
The scarred man rubbed a hand along the edge of his mouth. "I didn't realize Fowler was that careless. I thought he wanted it kept real quiet."  
  
The other man straightened, puzzled. "He did."  
  
"Look, all I want is to offer my own services. I need the money," Buck claimed, carefully watching the two men beside him.  
  
The scarred man pulled out Buck's pistol and aimed it at his head. The long dark muzzle of his own weapon stared at Buck, its cold gaze unflinching before its old master. "He's competition and I don't feel like splittin' our pot. I say we kill him." the scarred man rasped.  
  
Buck gauged his options very quickly and realized just how slim they were. He was about to foolishly attempt to tackle the men when another voice came from the darkness behind him.  
  
"I say we don't."  
  
Chris Larabee stepped out of the shadows, a rifle barrel nestled in his knowledgeable hands. It never wavered from its targets.  
  
Buck slumped in relief, letting his breath out in a quick single rush. He noted that Chris was still not wearing his rig. The man had become almost maniacal about not wearing the pistol around Sarah, but at least he was armed. Any weapon in Chris Larabee's hands was deadly.  
  
Panicking, the scarred man swung the pistol towards Chris, firing immediately. The bullet splintered into a wooden crate beside Chris' head, sending shards across his neck and shoulders. Without flinching, Chris opened up with the rifle, the darkness of the alley blazing with the flame from its barrel.  
  
The scarred man flew back like a rail caught in a twister while the man with the single spur raced down the alley. Scrambling to his feet, Buck took off after him, casting a quick look behind him in gratitude to the man who saved his life.  
  
Chris rapidly switched targets but as he drew a bead on the disappearing outlaw, Buck loomed in his sights. With a swift jerk, Chris raised the weapon in the air, cursing mildly. He checked on the dead outlaw, picking up Buck's gun on the ground in the process, then ran after his friend.  
  
The single spur jangled mockingly ahead of Buck as he labored to put on more speed. However, the outlaw was quick and wily. He pulled down barrels and small crates to create an obstacle course. Buck leaped over the first three but sprawled over the fourth, landing hard and feeling his breath rush forcefully from his lungs for the third time that evening. He ached in places he had long forgotten were a part of him.  
  
He staggered roughly to his feet with a cry of sheer fury, blinking away the disorienting stars before his eyes, and crawled over the barrel which felled him. He felt a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Let him go, Buck."  
  
Buck roughly pushed Chris' hand away, snarling, "No," and moved forward again, shaking his head to clear it. But by then, the outlaw had escaped and with him had vanished the opportunity to find Fowler. Buck's fury erupted and he had to direct it somewhere. Buck slammed fist after fist into the wood of the barrel while his booted foot forced deep cracks in its side. From Buck's strangled throat came the howl of man in deep despair. A string of blue curses ripped through the quiet alley.  
  
Chris stepped back for a second, alarmed at Buck's outrage over losing the outlaw. "Buck, what the hell is going on?" His eyes flicked to Buck and then back to the dead man in the alley.  
  
Buck struggled to regain his composure, to let the anger fade away, his voice raw and harsh. "Nuthin', Chris. It's nuthin'."  
  
"Nothing?! You call this nothing?" Chris exclaimed. "I can swallow alot of things, Buck, but not this. This isn't like you."  
  
"It was a misunderstanding, that's all," Buck murmured through tightly clenched teeth. "I thought they were somebody else."  
  
"Who?" Chris asked in disbelief. "They're outlaws and murderers. Why the hell would you think you knew them?"  
  
"Don't worry about it, Chris."  
  
Chris finally got angry himself. "Like hell! You've been acting odd ever since you got thrown! I want to know why."  
  
"Chris, I...." Buck hesitated, swallowing with difficulty. "I can't. It's just too strange. You wouldn't understand." He was at a loss as to what to do. He wanted to tell Chris the truth, to open up to somebody and find out if he were insane or not. Only he was afraid of the answer.  
  
"Buck, we've been friends for a long time. Been through hell and back thanks to the war, became more like brothers than friends. If you can't trust me now, what good is our friendship after all these years?"  
  
Buck shut his eyes against the pain that welled suddenly. He had forgotten how much Chris' friendship had meant to him. They had been through hell together and it had formed a bond between the two men that neither thought could be broken. Buck missed it more than he would ever admit to anyone.  
  
Opening his eyes, Buck studied his old captain with renewed spirit. There *was* more between them than just camaraderie. It was deeper, much deeper. The war had seen to that. The first battle together, their first blood spilled in defense of the other, made them brothers. What was looming on the horizon made this as much Chris' fight as Buck's. He decided, come what may, Chris deserved the truth. Or at least as much as Buck was willing to admit anyway.  
  
"Someone's gunning for you, Chris. Those two men were part of it."  
  
Confusion creased Chris' face. "Who would....?"  
  
Buck shook his head. "A man named Cletus Fowler. He's after you. I don't know where he is. Wish I did. I'd execute him right here, right now!" He spat the words out which only served to confuse Chris more.  
  
"Buck, why are you so hot about all this? No one's done anything yet except make some threats. If I took offense at every miscreant that blows bluster my way, I'd spend all my time in gunfights."  
  
Buck stepped up to Chris abruptly, his voice dropping low with his next words. "Chris, he's planning on hitting the ranch when we're in Mexico."  
  
Chris' face went slack as comprehension slowly seeped in. "Sarah....Adam..."  
  
"They don't know we're heading south. They're gonna hit the homestead when we're gone and find them alone."  
  
Chris' tanned face paled abruptly, a cold emptiness engulfing him at the implication. He shook his head, his thoughts tumultuous. "How did you find out about this, Buck?"  
  
Buck hesitated for just a moment which he instantly regretted as Chris' eyes rose to meet his. They were haunted orbs, frightened suddenly of Buck's answer.  
  
Chris' voice hardened. "How did you find out about this, Buck?" he repeated.  
  
Buck turned away from Chris, away from the accusing stare. "I overhead them in the bar."  
  
Chris stood there, his body turning slowly to ice.  
  
"I overheard them in the bar," Buck insisted slowly. Buck hated lying. It left a sour taste in his mouth. Lying to outlaws was one thing, lying to a friend was another, and lying to Chris Larabee was damn near impossible. The look in Chris' eyes told Buck that he saw through it like crystal, and worse, Chris thought Buck was hiding something far more terrible.  
  
Chris' gaze was unwavering steel, cold and hard and Buck had to force himself not to flinch. But finally Chris gave a sharp nod and strode back to the dead man. He searched through his pockets quickly. There was little there to identify him though there was a great deal of currency which Chris showed Buck before shoving it back into the outlaw's pocket. The man had already been paid in full.  
  
There was the sound of a growing commotion out in the main street. The brief exchange of gunfire was attracting attention finally.  
  
Chris rose to meet the gathering crowd but Buck grabbed his arm. "We have to get out of here."  
  
Stunned, Chris swung to stare at Buck. "What?"  
  
Buck knew if Fowler found out that Chris had killed one of his hired guns, he would know that they were on to him, and Fowler would change his plans because of it. He would strike at the Larabee's with a new strategy against which Buck had no defense. Right now they had the upper hand, such as it was.  
  
"Trust me on this, Chris," Buck implored. "Please!" He was panicking now. They couldn't be linked to the dead outlaw. He pulled once more on Chris' arm.  
  
Chris resisted for a moment more out of shock than distrust. He searched Buck's face carefully, looking for something he didn't want to find. It was Buck's plaintive expression that finally got Chris moving. As the voices of the mob came nearer, Buck and Chris darted into the shadows of the alley and were gone.  
  
Running for the end of town, they circled back to their horses and rode into the gathering gloom of an approaching storm. They disappeared unseen as the huge thunderclouds gathered before them. Flashes of lightening stabbed through the night, the sounds of which were just barely becoming audible to the riders.  
  
When they were a mile out of Eagle Bend, Chris reined in his black abruptly. Buck rode a few feet more before realizing that Chris had stopped. He turned back towards him, knowing full well what was coming. Chris wanted answers and Buck had none, none that anyone would believe anyway.  
  
"I want to know what's going on, Buck?"  
  
Chris' voice was so strained and so low that Buck almost missed the question. With a stab of icy realization, Buck knew Chris had reached his breaking point. His friend would go no further without the truth.  
  
Buck drew in a slow breath though his thoughts raced for the perfect answer. He had little choice, but he made one last effort. "I told you, Chris. I overhead them talking."  
  
Chris rode his horse up beside Buck's. "Then why the hell did we run? The law would have been on our side. It was self defense."  
  
Buck rubbed his calloused hand so hard over his face that it hurt. "It would have tipped Fowler off that we knew."  
  
"Good!" Chris shouted angrily. "It would have scared him off! Damn it, Buck! Where's your head?"  
  
Buck's nostrils flared at the lashing. "Fowler won't be scared off," he whispered with conviction.  
  
"How do you know that?"  
  
The accusation in Chris' tone stung Buck physically. Did Chris really think he was involved somehow? Buck should have never said what he did. Now he had only made things worse. "From what I heard, he's a murdering son-of-a-bitch for hire."  
  
Chris frowned. "I never heard of him.  
  
"Not many have," Buck said softly.  
  
Chris' eyes narrowed over his friend. "Then how did you?"  
  
Buck took a deep breath and lied through his teeth. "I heard of him when we got out of the Army. Didn't give it much mind until now."  
  
"Why the hell is he gunning for me?" Chris exclaimed angrily, confused at the sudden turn of events. "What did I do?"  
  
"I don't know, Chris. I was hoping you'd remember."  
  
Chris shook his head but still stared hard at Buck. "Still doesn't answer why you ran from the law. If Fowler is that bad, we should let the sheriff handle him."  
  
"Fowler ain't afraid of the law and the sheriff isn't up to handling him. Besides, if Fowler senses the law is after him, then he'll take off."  
  
"What's wrong with that? Let him!"  
  
"He'll only come back to try it again. We won't know where he'll strike." Buck said bitterly. He was angry at himself. He had blundered badly though there was still a small chance that Fowler wouldn't care about one dead outlaw. He'd just hire another one to replace him.  
  
"Buck, we don't know that! He could try and kill me whenever he wants. There's no guarantee that he's going to show up at the ranch as he planned."  
  
"He'll be there. Trust me."  
  
"Christ, Buck! What kind of game are you playing? This is my family you're talking about."  
  
"It's not a game, Chris and I would *never* endanger Sarah or Adam! NEVER! In fact, I think it's high time to send them to Sarah's parents. Tonight." He could see by Chris' expression that he agreed.  
  
Chris scrutinized his old friend for a long time, his horse shifting restlessly beneath him. Finally Chris sighed, his decision made. "Let's get back to the ranch." Suddenly, Chris was afraid. It was like a cold, dark hole in his gut that threatened to swallow him whole into an abyss. The thought of something happening to Sarah and Adam because of him made Chris physically ill. It spurred him to ride faster. Buck fell into pace beside him, saying nothing more.  
  
The hour it took to get home seemed like forever stretching into the darkness of the night. The horses were exhausted and winded as they pulled up to the house. Chris had kicked out of the stirrups before the animal had fully stopped, his booted feet landing heavily on the ground. The cold wind whipped around them brutally, cutting through their thin clothes. The storm was upon them.  
  
Chris ran up the stairs and flung open the door.  
  
His wife greeted him...with blood flecked cheeks and wide terrified eyes. A hairy hand was clamped around her mouth from behind, preventing her from crying out and warning her husband.  
  
"Sarah!" Chris choked out her name as a fuse of fury traced a burning path within him, his hand a mere blur as it reached for a sidearm that was no longer there. He heard Buck's shout behind him as a bullet caught Chris high in the chest and flung him backwards into Buck's arms. He fell with Buck in the doorway bathed in the light from the house, Sarah's muffled scream filling his ears.  
  
The pain in his chest burst throughout his body as limbs and muscles refused to obey him. His breath was nothing more than a strangled gasp, a spray of blood issuing forth from his mouth as he coughed desperately to clear his lungs. He could barely sense Buck writhing beneath him as his friend struggled to escape his dead weight.  
  
A tall, mustached man dressed in a well-tailored suit stepped into view, his pistol trailing smoke, a smirk of deep satisfaction plastered on his pasty face.  
  
Struggling to a kneeling position beside Chris, Buck recognized him immediately. "Fowler," he spat as he held Chris to him feeling a warm stickiness seeping over his fingers as he tried futilely to stem the blood gushing from the bullet hole. Chris was trying to tell Buck something but only blood issued forth from his rapidly filling lungs.  
  
Buck laid Chris gently down against the door jam, keeping him slightly elevated to ease his labored breathing. The shock of the attack was slowly falling away from Buck. Sarah's cries were wild and frantic in his ears.  
  
"Leave her alone!" Buck shouted with the sudden realization that all his plans of rescue and redemption were slipping away from him as if he had no right to claim them.  
  
Fowler, his gun still trained on Buck, glanced at the man holding the struggling Sarah. "Shut her up!" he demanded, his implication clear. "Blackfox, help him!"  
  
The half-breed Buck knew as Blackfox cowered in the corner of the kitchen in front of the fireplace, the horror of the sudden violence evident on his face. Buck hadn't even seen him hiding in the shadows until now. Blackfox was too appalled at the brutality he was now a part of to be a concern.  
  
The man with the single spur pushed Sarah to the side but inclined his head towards Buck and Chris. "These are the men who killed Bart."  
  
Fowler's gaze swung back to look at the men on the floor. "I'm not sure how you found out about me, but I don't suppose it will matter much in a few minutes."  
  
It was a cold, detached scrutiny that only enraged Buck more. Here was a man who was truly dead inside. He had tortured an innocent woman and then shot her husband in cold blood before her eyes. Buck hoped to God that Adam hadn't seen it.  
  
Then it hit him. Where was Adam?! He looked quickly around the room for the small boy and found him slumped motionless in the corner.  
  
Fowler followed Buck's attention and smiled. His gun lifted in Adam's direction.  
  
With a cry of despair, Buck rushed towards the boy, throwing himself in front of Fowler's aim. A pistol shot rang out and Buck felt a blossom of agony erupt in his back, high on his left shoulder. He collapsed to the floor in a heap, gasping, his hand reaching out to the small boy just beyond his reach.  
  
Fowler came up behind him and crushed a booted heel on Buck's fingers, smiling at the man's muted groan from the added agony. He glanced over at Blackfox who still had not moved. "Blackfox, you coward! Get over here!"  
  
The half-breed's slack face grew tighter with fear to have Fowler's fiercesome visage swing his way, but he still couldn't come forward.  
  
Fowler turned his attention back to Buck, lifting the pistol again, a sweet perverse leer of pleasure smeared across it. "Such a noble gesture. All for naught."  
  
The man with the single spur let go of Sarah who stumbled weakly to her knees, a sharp cry of wracking pain falling from her lips as she clutched her lower abdomen. She looked up to see Chris, still struggling against a body that would no longer obey him. She crawled arduously over to him, both of them momentarily forgotten, a trail of thick, red blood following after her.  
  
The man with the single spur grabbed Fowler's arm, shoving the pistol away from the back of Buck's skull. "He's mine, Fowler! You had your fun with Larabee. This one's mine, for my brother!"  
  
With a shriek of fear and loathing, Fowler wrenched himself away. "Don't ever touch me!"  
  
With the release of Fowler's foot, Buck rolled over on his back, his hand reaching behind him momentarily. It came up brimming with his .45. With a snarl of retribution he delivered long overdue justice.  
  
His first shot took Fowler in the stomach and he spun away out of Buck's sight. The second took out the other man, the bullet entering through his chin and exiting through the top of his head. The body, flopped backwards on the kitchen table in a wash of red, bouncing off to fall against the far wall beside Sarah and Chris. It crumpled onto the wooden chest just off to the side and spilled its contents in a disarray onto the floor. In the few brief seconds of peace in the aftermath of violence, the lone silver spur revolved lazily to halt.  
  
Buck struggled to his feet, swaying precariously, his rage pushing him beyond his limits. He looked for Fowler.  
  
The murderer was also trying to rise, his own gun still held in his one good hand. Before Fowler could take aim, Buck shot the bastard.  
  
Again....  
  
And again....  
  
And again.  
  
Fowler jerked as each bullet found a home, his pristine suit soon drenched in his own blood. Buck's eyes were aflame with hate.  
  
Only when the hammer fell on consecutive empty chambers did sanity seep back into Buck. As the sounds of Sarah's sobbing reached his ears, he wished it hadn't. He took in the state of the Larabee home for the first time. Blood coated the floor and the walls looked like a slaughterhouse. The once immaculate house was a shambles, a mockery of what it had once stood for.  
  
He lurched over to Adam and touched the frail figure, weeping openly now as his red stained fingers found a thready pulse. With a gasp of relief, he lifted the boy in his arms, ignoring the agony in his shoulder, and brought him closer to his parents.  
  
Sarah Larabee reached out for her son, "Adam!" She held his limp body close to her, his fair head lolling against her breast.  
  
Chris, his blood-soaked hand groping blindly for his son, struggled to reach him. Sarah grabbed it and brought the trembling fingers to Adam.  
  
"He's okay," Buck said with a voice so wrought with emotions that he could barely understand himself. He still held Adam's small hand.  
  
"He tried ... to stop them...when they... " Sarah's voice broke but she tried again to get the words out. "When they..." She couldn't finish, her hand fell to her empty belly. She looked up at Buck with haunted eyes that once belonged only to Chris Larabee. The horror of seeing that same utter despair on Sarah pierced Buck harder and more devastatingly than any bullet. Her beautiful face was swollen and cut. Her skirt, he saw, was soaked in red. She was losing way too much blood.  
  
"God, Sarah, there's so much blood," he murmured.  
  
Sarah turned immediately to Chris, laying a hand over his devastating wound. She believed Buck was referring to her husband and not to her. "Oh, Buck, we're goin' tae lose him," she gasped. Buck examined Chris. He knew the minute Chris was shot that he was beyond all their help. Chris knew it too. His hazel eyes locked with Buck's. Buck could hear and see the bubbling froth every time his dying friend drew a labored, shuddering breath. It wasn't difficult to discern Chris had been hit in the lungs.  
  
"Christopher!" Sarah shouted anxiously, her voice demanding and stern. "You're not leaving me!" She brushed back the long strands of strawberry blond hair off his forehead. It was saturated with sweat but he was frighteningly cold to the touch.  
  
Chris' hand reached out and grabbed Sarah's shoulder and pulled himself closer to her. He tried to gasp out her name, his voice low and strangled.  
  
Sarah placed her hands on him. "I'm here. I'm right here." Her hand on his chest felt warm and slick. In despair, she unconsciously bit down into her swollen lip. She tasted her own warm blood run once more between her teeth.  
  
"Sarah," Chris rasped. "...love...you...."  
  
Tears began pouring from Sarah as she clutched her dying husband. To her horror, he convulsed violently, coughing with a gurgling sound. Sarah pressed her hand down on the chest wound trying to staunch the flow of blood pumping through her fingers with each beat of his struggling heart. He moaned harshly and dragged her hand away.  
  
"Don't," he begged. "....drowning...."  
  
"No!" Sarah sobbed, swallowing hard, trying to draw on strength and resolve that seemed so very far out of reach. "We're going to get help." She struggled to rise but found she couldn't. Her legs had gone cold and dead. It was then that she realized her own predicament. She was dying too. She looked up at Buck, her lower lip trembling with a will of its own.  
  
Chris turned to Buck, his chin a scarlet stain. "Buck...listen...to ... me." A gush of more red ran down the corner of his mouth. He began to cough again, terrible and congested. Buck grasped his shoulders and raised him higher against Sarah and he began to breath easier.  
  
"Buck...take care...of...," Chris wheezed laboring to draw in another breath.  
  
Buck leaned closer to Chris' field of vision and eased his friend's mind though it was with a hollow promise. "I'll take care of them, Chris! I swear it!" Hot tears ran down his face. He had failed. Oh god, he had failed again.  
  
Spent, Chris fell back limply against his wife.  
  
"Christopher?" Sarah whispered, terrified of the implication of his stillness. "CHRISTOPHER!" she shouted.  
  
Chris' eyes fluttered and he opened them desperately in fear. He twisted to embrace her, drawing in a gurgling breath, coughing violently. He tried to focus on Sarah once more, reaching out a shaking hand towards her cheek but the effort of that simple movement cost him dearly. He sagged and Sarah grabbed him tighter, holding him against her, against Adam. He never drew another breath, his open eyes staring blindly.  
  
"NOOOOO," she screamed.  
  
Buck's head dropped down, his shoulders shaking. Grief overwhelmed him, failure tormented him. All this for nothing, Buck sobbed. What was the purpose? Why the hell was he here if he couldn't save his best friend or his family? There was nothing left he could do but he'd help Sarah and Adam for as long as he was able, for as long as he was within this nightmare's grasp.  
  
He heard movement behind him and he whirled around, hell itself burning there in his eyes. *Fowler was still alive!*  
  
Buck came to his feet like a demon from the flames, drenched in the blood of others as well as himself. He didn't even notice his state.  
  
Fowler's eyes widened in horror at the apparition he had created. A small whimper of terror escaped his lips as Buck's right hand grasped him and shook the murderer like a wolf with its prey.  
  
"You fuckin' bastard," Buck hissed, his throat raw. "You still alive?"  
  
Fowler weakly scrambled backwards but came up against the wall of the house. "Please don't!"  
  
"Don't what?! Kill you?" A lunatic grin that usually belonged elsewhere molded onto Buck's features. "You're already dead." Buck could see more than just blood oozing from Fowler's abdomen. The man was going to die a long and lingering death.  
  
There was only one thing left for Buck to do here, the last thing he could do for Chris. "The name of your employer, Fowler, give it to me! Maybe I'll grant you a quick death." Buck lifted the cold steel of his pistol to Fowler's forehead.  
  
An insane laugh bubbled out of Fowler though it only caused him pain. He lay there gasping through weighted eyelids. "You'd love that, wouldn't you? Give you a direction for your revenge. Give your life a purpose."  
  
"Fowler," Buck hissed. "Your guts are spilled from here to Tuesday and I'm about to take a stroll in my spurs through them for what you did. I've heard tell of people living for hours like that--long, painful, agonizing hours. It's your call. A long lingering death or a quick merciful one. Your choice. You have two seconds to decide. I don't have any more time to waste on you."  
  
Fear seeped back into Fowler. The cold dead eyes of Larabee stared at him from across the room, causing a flush of nausea to wash over him that had little to do with his injuries. He looked back at Wilmington and saw the devil himself standing over him, dipped in blood and blazing pure loathing. "Alright," Fowler croaked, "I'll tell you. It was...."  
  
Sarah's weak shout reached Buck's ears too late. He looked up to see something towering over him and then Blackfox slammed the front of Buck's skull with the poker iron from the fireplace. Buck spun to the floor, desperately clinging to consciousness. In the distance he heard Fowler screaming, "Kill him! Kill him now!"  
  
Suddenly, the small house was filled with gunfire again, loud and shattering. Buck couldn't tell if it was solely a gun's retort or the added cacophony of the storm raging outside. Then a body crumpled over his and he saw the poker iron skid across the floor. Fowler's final gasping scream echoed for a moment before dying into permanent silence.  
  
Buck called up a fast fading reserve of strength to turn his head. Sarah was sitting amongst her decimated family, Chris' ivory-handled Peacemaker in her shaking hand, taken from the strewn hope chest. A single thread of gunsmoke drifted from its barrel and then dissipated into the now still air. To Buck's horror he saw that Adam was awake, his wide eyes taking in the violence, his small hands pushing weakly at the blood-soaked shirt of his father. The pistol in Sarah's hand fell from nerveless fingers onto her lap and then she slumped back against the door, still and lifeless.  
  
Buck tried to rise, a low moan forcing its way through his lips. He had to get to them, help them. Adam needed him. But as his head rose off the floor an explosion of agony assaulted him, first a bright light and then the slowly, bit by bit, the light began to fade; stars fell from the sky, the moon went to sleep and the sun closed her eye, plunging the world around him into an ebony eclipse. A second later, the wall of darkness from above collapsed on him, pushing him back down to the floor which suddenly transformed into an abyss. He was falling--falling away from the only second chance he'd ever have, his hopes thrown like sheets of blood-stained paper into the storm, his guilt hanging on him like a second sickly skin.  
  
A roll of thunder echoed in his ears as he flailed about trying to stop his descent but to no avail. He plummeted into the chasm, his cry of anguish following him. "NOOOOooooo......"  
  
"......ooooooOOOOOOO!"  
  
Hands gripped him as he rose off the bed with a strangled scream, fevered eyes taking in shadowed figures around him. A burst of light filled the dark room for an instant as a crash of horrifying sound practically shook the very air. He heard muffled voices that were nonsensical and he didn't care to sort them out. He fell back to the earth and back into oblivion.  
  
* * *  
  
JD and Nathan eased a sweat-soaked Buck gently onto the bed as soon as the delirious man stopped fighting them. His dark hair contrasted sharply against the white bandage wrapped around his head. A wash of red smeared the front of it where the skin had split from its impact against the branch. His shoulder had been broken when he had landed badly from his horse. Upon colliding with the hard ground his shoulder had snapped and the bone had thrust itself up harshly through his skin. Nathan set the bone but there was an infection running through Buck now and it was a bad one. Nathan had seen fevers like this throughout the war. They rarely ended well. Nathan had done what he could, binding the shoulder to let the bones mend, but Buck's constant thrashing was not doing the break any good.  
  
Nathan's exhaustion and concern showed clearly on his features and only served to make JD even more apprehensive as he stood on the other side of the bed. "It's bad, isn't it?" he asked the healer quietly, almost afraid of the answer. He hadn't inquired about Buck's condition in hours not wanting to hear the truth. Now he did because he could see it plainly for himself. "He's dying, isn't he?"  
  
The dark healer closed his eyes, not really wanting to look at the boy. JD hadn't left Buck's side since the kid had brought the injured man home. Luckily, they had made it back to Four Corners before the storm had hit.  
  
The torrential rains and the fierce high winds had battered the small town for hours now. Nathan couldn't remember a storm this bad. Some of the weaker structures had already taken major damage and injuries abounded in Four Corners. Nathan had been kept extremely busy, his time split between Buck and his other patients. The Bane family residence, located on the far edge of town, had collapsed. Mr. Bane and his four kids had escaped with only superficial cuts and bruises but Mrs. Bane had major contusions. She was currently resting at Mrs. Potter's, who had taken the now homeless family in. Nathan was sure that there was more to come.  
  
Nathan let out a weary almost disheartened sigh, his hand reaching for the bowl of water and the cloth that lay beside it. He finally looked over at JD whose dark eyes were mired with anguish. The boy already knew the answer. "Buck's fighting more than just a fever, JD."  
  
Buck began to mumble again, his head tossing weakly from side to side. The grief that etched his face was hard for the two men to watch. It was so unlike the scoundrel, whose humor kept them all from being overwhelmed by the odds of life and death against which they played on a constant basis.  
  
JD grabbed onto the small cache of hope that he forever coveted. "But there's still a chance he'll live, right?"  
  
Wringing the cloth of excess water, Nathan brushed it gently over Buck's flushed face in a feeble attempt to cool his fever. "He has to want to fight, JD." He regarded Buck's tortured expression again. "I don't see that happening."  
  
JD grimaced angrily. During the last couple hours of the fever, Buck's monologue had been ceaseless and disturbing. Most of it JD hadn't understood but one thing was certain, it involved Chris. Somehow Buck blamed himself for the death of Chris' family and JD had the sense that Chris wasn't denying it.  
  
Buck had been reliving the nightmares of that night in his fevered dreams, not so badly at first but the scream that had erupted from Buck's tortured throat moments before only told JD that Buck was in hell. The force and agony of it cut through both Nathan and JD in the small, dim room. No wonder Nathan had figured Buck had given up.  
  
JD's memory flashed back a few months ago to when the seven had battled Coltrane and his men. The young kid rubbed absently at his left shoulder where the Mexican's knife had embedded itself hilt deep as the outlaw's partner had dragged poor, tiny Olivia away screaming. JD had blamed himself for losing the child, and it was Buck who had straightened the kid out that night as Nathan stitched up the wound. 'Things like this happen,' Buck had told him, frustrated at the kid's foolish nobility. 'Life just throws situations at you and you can't always come out smellin' like a rose. We're just men after all.'  
  
The young sheriff of Four Corners had tried to tell Buck this same thing over and over tonight but Buck couldn't or wouldn't hear. He watched Buck almost rise up again off the bed but this time Nathan easily pushed him back. JD caught one word from the dying man's lips.  
  
"Chris...."  
  
Determination flooded JD. If Buck wouldn't listen to JD, then fine. But he had to listen to Chris. The two men had been friends for too long not to respect each other, regardless of what had happened. JD grabbed up his slicker and his hat off the back of the chair. "I'll be back, Nathan."  
  
The healer looked up in surprise at JD's sudden departure. "Where you going?"  
  
JD nodded at Buck. "To find him a reason to live." He pushed the door open and was immediately buffeted by the strong ravenous winds outside. Nathan shielded his patient against it, Buck turning his face away from the storm's fury.  
  
* * *  
  
JD fought his way to the saloon where the rest of the seven were keeping vigil. The wind grappled with the slight figure and shook him in its anger as JD leaned unnaturally forward into its screaming breath. He was exhausted and soaking by the time he finally entered the saloon. As he struggled to shut the door behind him, a huge shadow came over him and helped him close the door. JD smiled wearily up at Josiah and nodded his thanks.  
  
"How's Buck?" the preacher asked.  
  
JD sobered and shook his head. "He's worse." Scanning the room, he saw for whom he was searching. The lean bounty hunter was slouched in a chair, alone in the far corner of the bar. With long strides, JD approached the only other man in Four Corners that had an inkling of what was going on. "Where's Chris?" he demanded.  
  
Vin set his drink down slowly and gazed up at JD with a sad, weary face. "Facing the storm," he answered quietly as if that made all the sense in the world.  
  
JD digested that for a moment, wringing his drenched bowler hat in his hand. The tracker, no matter how round about his answers were, was always truthful. JD looked out the window where the sheets of rain flung themselves against the glass in a frenzied, crazed fit. A cold feeling of fear seeped into him at the sight of it. He licked the clammy water that still clung to his upper lip and suppressed a shiver. "He needs to be here."  
  
Vin studied JD for a long moment. Finally his eyes tracked to the same window listening as he had for hours already, to the storm's mournful howling. Chris was out there somewhere. This storm was something of Chris' making and only he would be able to stop it.  
  
The bounty hunter had followed Chris' trail at the same time JD had been bringing Buck back to town. Vin had been worried about Chris and had eventually found the gunslinger camped up in the hills, solitary and sullen. Vin had stayed out of sight, content only in the fact that Chris was all right, relieved to see that Chris had avoided going to the next nearest saloon. It kept his volatile nature from endangering anyone else. Vin had ridden back to town without Chris ever being the wiser, only to find an injured Buck in Nathan's care upon his return.  
  
Vin knew that Chris, despite the storm, would not come home to Four Corners on his own. A part of Chris would challenge the fury of mother nature, daring her to take him. Maybe pleading with her to do so especially on this night. For tonight was the anniversary of Sarah and Adam's death. Buck's ceaseless delirium had made that perfectly clear.  
  
A lone shingle caught in mother nature's grasp was thrown against the side of the saloon outside with such force that it made almost all the men in the room jump. It broke Vin's musing. The detached bounty hunter regarded JD again. "He's not comin' in."  
  
JD's bitterness and frustration was evident on his features. His worry for Buck dictated his every action now. "Buck is going to die and it will be Chris' fault!" he told them with heated emotion, striding back towards the door. He spitefully flung it open. It crashed into the wall, leaving JD standing alone in the midst of the storm's fury. The boy's long, dark hair flew wildly about his face as he turned back once more into the room. "I'll never forgive him for this!" His words were almost drowned out by a crash of thunder. He pulled the door shut behind him and was gone.  
  
"I certainly hope that child retains enough sense not to embark on a search for our missing leader," Ezra commented, breaking the ensuing silence as he picked up the last of his wind blown cards from the floor. "This storm is raging with a life of its own and the dear boy would not last five minutes in its embrace."  
  
Vin and Josiah exchanged weary looks, knowing that the gambler had just stated the most obvious course of action for JD. Vin rose slowly to his feet as did the preacher.  
  
Josiah shrugged into his Mexican blanket coat. "I'll keep JD where he's needed. Just in case..." The big man let his words trail off, not wanting to finish his sentence. He didn't want to think about what JD would do if Buck died. He looked at Vin. "Just in case," he finally said.  
  
The bounty hunter gathered his own coat and hat. "I'll find Chris." He knew he had little chance of finding Chris again in this storm. Most likely the gunslinger had moved on to a nearby town, or at the very least, found some shelter in the woods from the weather, but Vin had to try anyway. Buck's life depended on it as did Chris' soul.  
  
As the two men moved to the door intent on their tasks, Ezra sighed, quickly gathering up the remaining cards from the table. "I'll stay here in case our illustrious Whiskey King returns," he drolled lightly more to himself then to his vacating compatriots. He too doubted that Chris would return to Four Corners, but right now he had to think of some reason for not following the two men out into the tempestuous night. He was not willing to face this black storm and he had seen Buck already once this evening. His friend's wasted body had done little to ease his concern. The kid was right. Buck was dying and Ezra truly did not want to be there when it happened. Death and its after-effects were always exacting and this one promised to be even worse. Especially for the boy, if not for Chris Larabee. He had a feeling that their time in Four Corners was about to come to an abrupt end.  
  
* * *  
  
By the time Vin had saddled his horse and struck off into the night, the storm had settled down some. Vin didn't figure it was over yet, but at least this brief respite would give him the time he needed to find Chris. The rain continued to come down though it was at least bearable now. It no longer stung his skin like the icy kiss of hail. The ground was flooded and his horse picked its way carefully across the trail.  
  
Vin's only option was to go where he had last seen Chris. If he wasn't there then he'd ride to the nearest town. Hopefully, Chris was wise enough to head indoors. If neither of those options panned out, then he doubted he'd find Chris in time anyway.  
  
His lips pursed tightly. The group would never recover from this if Buck died. Not like this. JD would be inconsolable and Chris.... Well, Chris would never be the same. Another loss for that man would push him over the edge, especially a loss like this, one practically of his own making.  
  
Vin knew it had been grief and liquor and raw memories that had made Chris strike out at Buck that night. Not to say that Chris hadn't meant it. He was a man in agony and like any tormented animal, would have struck back at anything that moved into his range in an effort to relieve his pain. Buck, loyal friend that he was, walked straight into it, knowing it was going to be hell.  
  
And Hell it had become.  
  
And now Vin was searching for the man who held its key.  
  
The wind was picking up again, the tops of the trees waving with more force than they had during the last hour, the rain beginning to slant sideways again. Vin's horse shied frantically as a broken branch tumbled out of the darkness towards them. Shifting his weight in the saddle in effort to remain seated, Vin gathered the bit tighter in his horse's mouth. His steed was wide eyed and wary as it looked about for more dangerous debris while his rider, eyes squinted against the wind and weary to the bone, watched the treeline for something else more insidious.  
  
Twenty minutes later, to Vin's surprise, a small sliver of light flickered in the darkness within the shadow of a mountain. Vin sighed heavily. As relieved as he was to find Chris, he was dismayed to find that the stubborn gunfighter had only moved a few feet from where Vin had left him the night before. Vin had hoped Chris would have had more sense, but at least this way Vin wouldn't have to go chasin' after him. Buck didn't have that kind of time.  
  
With the rain beginning again in earnest, he was lucky to have found Chris. Another few minutes and the rain would have put out the fire and Vin would have more than likely missed him.  
  
Vin rode unannounced into Chris' camp, such that it was. The bounty hunter figured that the man's death wish would prohibit Chris from shooting a stranger. Chris'd be more than happy if someone came and put him out of his misery.  
  
Chris Larabee sat hunched over the struggling fire, his black duster hanging heavy and soaking around him, offering little protection from the elements. The way Chris had lit out of town left no time to prepare for this kind of weather.  
  
Vin dismounted, tying his horse securely to a sturdy tree. The rain ran off his greased cowhide coat as he squatted over his ankles beside the fire. Chris didn't even look up at him.  
  
Vin could barely feel the heat from the tiny fire and he knew it was doing precious little to keep Chris warm, though he doubted anything could. Chris tended to covet his pain. In some odd way it kept him alive. He had given his soul over to it when his family died, feeding on its bitter taste. Otherwise, Chris Larabee would have given up the ghost long ago.  
  
Vin placed his cold hands on either side of the flames, the light from the fire misting in the watery pools surrounding it. "You need to come back, Chris."  
  
Chris didn't respond either physically or verbally. He just sat there, his eyes rooted to the fading flames, listening to it hiss. Water dropped off the brim of his hat forming a puddle at his feet.  
  
"Buck's been hurt."  
  
Finally a flicker of life emerged within the gunfighter. Chris' head came slowly up, scrutinizing Vin from across the fire, trying to decide if this was just a ruse to get him back to town. That thought swiftly left for such a thing wasn't in the quiet bounty hunter. Chris let go of the breath he had been holding.  
  
When Vin saw the hard edge fall away from Chris, he continued. "He's dyin'." He hated saying the words, knowing how it was going to affect the man slumped before him.  
  
Chris shuddered slightly, his eyes falling again to the flames. With the swiftness of a fire's spark, the memory of their argument crowded over him. He tried to shut it down, hating the way it made him feel, all too reminiscent of other suffering that he forever fought against. His head still down, he muttered, "How?"  
  
Vin knew there was a change now in Chris but he didn't relent. Chris had to know the truth. "Way I heard it, he was runnin' from somethin'. Ran his horse head first into a tree."  
  
Chris flinched as if physically struck himself.  
  
"He broke some bones as well as his head. Been unconscious since day before yesterday when JD brought him home. There wasn't much the boy could do for him out there. By the time they made town Buck was in a fever. Nathan doesn't think he'll make it."  
  
The gunslinger's head tilted up to stare into the darkness above him. Vin liked to think that the rain striking Chris' face covered the trace of the man's tears. No one's eyes could hold that much anguish without something giving.  
  
Chris' head dropped back down, sitting there like a hunched shadow, the cold hard rain pouring over him, seeping into his soul, almost paralyzing him. Fear and his own guilt ate away at him like a living beast against which he had no defense. His ivory-handled sword at his side once more offered him no protection.  
  
As the silence continued, Vin rose and once more took up the reins of his horse. "Just thought you'd like to know." He mounted, settling into the wet saddle without acknowledging the discomfort. He turned his mare back into the night, leaving the gunfighter trapped within walls of his own making, the final flame deepening the shadows about his face before it too finally died against the storm's onslaught.  
  
* * *  
  
JD pulled his chair closer to Buck's bed, tucking the blanket tighter about his friend. He hated this waiting. It was driving him crazy with helplessness, watching Buck slip further and further away. He wanted to do something--anything--to take his mind off Buck. He wished Josiah hadn't stopped him from going after Chris. At least he wouldn't have to watch Buck's agonized thrashing. Though a part of him was glad he didn't have to face Chris. He wobbled between beating the crap out of Chris, which alone terrified him, knowing that it would end badly, mainly for himself; and pleading with the gunfighter to help Buck want to live again. JD's head dropped. It was better that Vin had gone to find him.  
  
Josiah stood off to the side, pouring himself another cup of the cooling coffee that Mrs. Travis had brought over an hour ago, watching the boy torment himself over Buck's care. There was little any of them could do for their friend now. Josiah doubted that even Chris' presence was going to make much difference.  
  
He stepped over and offered the cup to JD who stared at it numbly for a moment or two before shaking his head. "Why don't you get some rest, JD," the big man said. "I'll keep watch for awhile."  
  
JD continued to shake his head. "I can't leave him. Not like this." He twisted around in the small wooden chair looking back at the new wave of storms that were barrelling their way through Four Corners. They raged outside threatening to tear the very walls of Nathan's room down around all of them. But JD wasn't thinking of that. His mind was solely on the arrival of the only salve that could save Buck Wilmington. "Why doesn't he come?"  
  
Josiah sipped the lukewarm coffee. "It's not a fit night for man nor beast, JD. This storm is working hard to keep everyone to ground. Best not count on them making it back tonight." He settled himself down in the only other chair in the room on the opposite of side of the bed. He idly wondered who might still be up at this hour. JD could use some food.  
  
Buck shifted beneath the blankets, bringing the preacher's attention back to him. The group of men all knew what this had to do with. Buck's ceaseless, confused ramblings made it clear. He blamed himself for Sarah and Adam's death. Josiah had once heard Chris absolve Buck of such blame as they rode out to the ruins of the Larabee ranch, but obviously something had happened between the two men to upset that delicate balance. It seemed that without that absolution Buck no longer possessed the strength to fight his demons.  
  
Chris Larabee and Buck Wilmington had been friends for far longer than anyone here could even suspect, Josiah guessed. Relationships like that were a powerful force. Unfortunately, that force could be exerted in a number of ways, both good and bad.  
  
Josiah hoped Vin could convince Chris to come. He had no doubt the tracker could find the gunslinger but whether Chris would choose to return was another matter. Josiah refused to believe that Chris Larabee would stay away from a dying man's bedside especially if it was an old friend, regardless of past angry words. But the rogue element here was Chris' family.  
  
Josiah had never seen a man love his family more than this quiet, pale gunslinger. It was a beautiful yet devastating thing to behold, the kind of love that would never wash away. The destruction of that family had held Chris in the sway of sorrow for a long time, driving the man from the shelter of all others, never accepting a moment's peace or happiness.  
  
Buck moaned again, whispering a name over and over. Josiah leaned closer to try and hear.  
  
"Adam," JD told the preacher stoically. "He keeps saying Adam." He had heard Buck say it a thousand times already.  
  
"Chris' son," Josiah noted.  
  
JD nodded then turned his brown eyes full bore towards Josiah. They were wrought with confusion and anger. "Why, Josiah? Why won't Chris forgive him? Buck didn't do anythin'."  
  
"A man's life is made up of choices, JD. Forks in the road where you can turn either left or right. Most of the time you don't even recognize 'em for what they are. To some, like Buck, they're little decisions and don't seem like much at the time. To others, like Chris, the moment is everything."  
  
"Which way is right?"  
  
"Neither," Josiah answered. "And both." JD sighed heavily with frustration and the ex-preacher tried to clarify it for him. "No one can see the future, JD. Except maybe for that Cherokee holy man," he muttered, smiling thinly at some private joke, "but for the most part we're on our own and we have to hope we make the right decisions at the right time."  
  
JD shifted in his chair to ease a cramping muscle. He had been sitting too long and his legs were going numb. Rubbing them free of pins and needles, he asked Josiah a question. "Don't you believe in God anymore, Josiah?"  
  
"If there is one, JD, he no longer talks to me." Josiah rose and stretched, eventually moving to the window. He didn't particularly want to go out into the storm, but he figured maybe he could get JD something to eat and also check to see if Vin had returned.  
  
JD's voice was low but it still attracted Josiah's attention. "I have to believe, Josiah."  
  
The ex-preacher laid a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. "That's good, son. You might have to have faith enough for all of us."  
  
* * *  
  
The sick room was quiet and JD, exhausted in body and spirit, dozed fitfully in the chair. The storm still raged outside though it had finally lessened in intensity. The sky still wept, the trees still shivered and the wind still moaned, but it didn't act like it was the end of the world anymore. Now it just sounded despondent and alone.  
  
The door swung open suddenly and in its frame stood Chris Larabee, a terrifying vision silhouetted against the storm. A lightening bolt streaked across the sky and its roll of thunder answered promptly in return.  
  
JD nearly fell in fright from his chair. He stood quickly as Chris grabbed hold of the door that had been ripped from his grasp by the wind and closed it behind him. JD could see that the gunfighter was soaked to the bone, his hair matted to his face and his hat flung behind him, dancing wildly by its latigo thong from the forces outside. Water dripped from the black duster forming empty pools on the wooden floor. The fierce mien in the man's face frightened JD to his very soul.  
  
He took a deep breath trying to remind himself that he wanted Chris here. It's what he had prayed for. He put away his fear and stepped boldly up to the gunslinger whose eyes were riveted to the bed. "Where have you been?"  
  
A slight twitch of surprise made Chris glance his way for a second, but then his attention returned to Buck. "How is he?"  
  
"Like you really care," JD retorted, taking affront at the length of time it took for Chris to come back. He had watched Buck slip further and further away while waiting for Chris. It had awakened something dark and callous inside him.  
  
Chris was silent as he drifted almost wraithlike to the bedside. He laid a damp, frozen hand upon Buck's cheek. Buck actually sighed in relief at the touch.  
  
JD's anger diminished slightly. He stepped over to stand next to Chris. "Nathan said he's given up."  
  
"His choice." Chris' icy words were spoken softly.  
  
The resentment rushed back in JD. "He's your oldest friend and this is how you treat him!? He cares so much about you and you don't give a damn whether he lives or dies!?" The harsh words flowed out of him as his fear of Chris gave way under his devotion to Buck. Hours of weary bedside vigilance crashed over him, spurring on wayward thoughts to sudden tangible reality.  
  
"It's between us," Chris pointed out.  
  
"Like hell it is. Whether you like it or not, you've got people in this town that care about you, respect you! We've followed you to hell and back countless times and you think that doesn't make us care what happens to each other." JD stepped closer as Chris turned to face him. "I've *bled* for you. We all have."  
  
Chris glanced coolly down at the boy. "You knew what you were getting into."  
  
JD nodded viciously. "Yes we did. Friendship, loyalty, but you've barricaded yourself against all that, against us." He gestured to Buck. "You turned your back on him. Why, Chris?"  
  
A muscle tremor rippled down Chris' jaw, visible for the first time.  
  
"Why, damn you?"  
  
There was no answer from the gunfighter.  
  
JD turned away from Chris and faced Buck. "He was a madman when you left. What did you do to him?" He wiped angrily at the slight moisture at the corners of his eyes. "Buck's been calling for you for hours. Begging for your forgiveness." He struggled to understand what happened but in the end all he wanted was for Buck to live. He turned on Chris again. "He deserves it, doesn't he?"  
  
Chris didn't answer. A shuddering breath escaped him as he removed his hat and coat and set it at the table. Chris knew the answer was yes ... and no. It was Chris that needed to apologize. What was said the other night was only out of Chris' anguish as the drunken gunslinger inexplicably labored to find someone to blame, anyone to blame, even Buck. It was wrong and he knew it, but grief and anger were powerful influences. Then there was the damn liquor on top of that. True, it could dull some of the pain, but it also opened doors that should remain closed. Doors that logic demanded stay closed, but inebriated as he was, Chris had flung them all open, for logic never lingers with a stupid drunk.  
  
JD tried to hold onto raw emotions that were threatening to break through to the surface. "Do you know that he talks about Sarah and Adam all the time?"  
  
Chris snapped back to the present, a harsh ache piercing his heart. He didn't want to hear this but JD ignored him.  
  
"Thanks to Buck, I've gotten to know them a little. Damn it, Chris, it's not wrong to speak of the dead. For some it's a way of healing. That's Buck. He needs to remember. That boy of yours was everything to him. Those little memories he had of Adam allow him to share that love. It's not wrong to let other people remember them fondly. So it's not your way, but maybe it should be. Maybe it would help melt that block of ice you call a heart."  
  
"What do you know about it?" Chris' voice was ragged with repressed emotion.  
  
JD spun towards Chris. "I know things just happen, Chris! You can't stop 'em, you can't change 'em! You don't think I regret things in my life? You don't think that I've done things I shouldn't have?" His eyes glistened as his own mind was cast back to the past. "That maybe if I'd worked harder, my mother would still be alive. That maybe I should have taken off on my own months earlier so she wouldn't have worked so hard to help earn my keep too. She could have used that money she saved on herself instead of working herself to the bone to support me and send me to school.  
  
"I think about it every day, but you know what? It's too late. All I can do now is make myself into something she'd be proud of. My momma wouldn't want me to wallow in self pity and guilt. It doesn't do either of us any good, not now and not ever. And momma would certainly tan my hide good if I even tried to blame anyone else for her death, myself included. It just happened. You have to let it go and not drag anyone else into your grief."  
  
The wind howled outside as if banshees had taken up residence in Four Corners. Chris shivered as he felt cold beads of rainwater drip from his hair down his spine. JD's words echoed in his ears. It was the truth he had always known but had forgotten in a coward's moment, obscured inside of a dark whiskey bottle.  
  
"I know Buck is no more to blame for what happened than you," JD continued, his voice straining now against the pull of emotions. He stared hard at Chris. "And if he dies believing that you blame him, I'll hate you."  
  
Chris swallowed hard against his own despair, his throat and jaw working laboriously, making his scowl deeper. He couldn't stand it anymore. He spoke, his voice quiet and strained. "That's something you should have started doing long ago, kid."  
  
JD spun and slammed a powerful fist across Chris' jaw. The gunfighter reeled and then recovered only to have the boy grab him, shoving him up against the wall. JD's mind did not quite grasp just how stupid a move it really was, but the image of Buck's wasted body filled his mind instead and with it came rage. He didn't realize till much later that Chris never even resisted.  
  
Chris hit the wall violently, his head snapping against the grain while his back dug into a nail, which at one time posted one of Nathan's sketches of bone and muscle. His hands clutched uselessly onto JD's, more for support than defense as he stared in shock at JD's outraged face. It was a face that Chris recognized immediately. He stared at himself.  
  
"I respected you! Wanted to *be* you--but not now--not like this!" JD ground out the words, his hands twisting Chris' sodden shirt. "You can save him! All you have to do is forgive him!" JD's eyes filled with hot tears, held only in place by his long, dark lashes.  
  
Furious at his own body's betrayal, JD released Chris, turning away. It infuriated him for this only reinforced the others' notion that he was too young for this work. He stumbled away from Chris. "I need some air," he mumbled and walked across the room, wiping his eyes roughly on his shirt sleeve. His hand rested on the door as he paused, turning back once more to look at Buck. When he realized that Chris was staring at him, he whirled and ran out the door into the storm.  
  
The wind and rain howled louder outside as the open door amplified its voice and then the wind sucked the door shut with a crash. It was quiet again and Chris was left alone with Buck.  
  
* * *  
  
Chris sat in the chair beside his old friend. He hadn't moved in the last hour. The room was almost pitch dark in the dead of the night. The storm had passed on abruptly, leaving the world in an unearthly realm. Utter stillness and an unnatural silence engulfed everything. Chris shivered in his still wet clothes.  
  
"You taught that kid well, Buck," he told his friend quietly, wanting to break the silence that lingered, to chase away any ghosts that might be hovering. "Or maybe he just had it in him all along." He bent forward scrubbing at his stiff, damp strands of hair, recalling JD's outburst and the words that spoke such truths. "He's come a long way."  
  
Chris picked up the cloth and wiped Buck down again. "You make things so difficult, Buck. You always did." He tried a small smile, failed miserably, and then just continued with his monologue. "I do too, I guess." Setting the cloth back down in the ceramic bowl, he shifted the chair closer to the bedside to replace the poultice on the infected shoulder wound.  
  
Chris doubted that his presence was going to make much of a difference in this struggle between life and death, but he wouldn't leave Buck. If his friend would only open his eyes, would only cling to lucidity for just a single moment, Chris would grant him the forgiveness the man craved but did not need. Yet Buck's eyes remained closed. The man never was one to cooperate.  
  
Chris hunched over his knees, his elbows weakly supporting his drawn, weary frame. Buck was going to die and JD was going to hate Chris, and the kid had every right. That thought ate at Chris more than it should have. He had fought against caring about the boy for so long that he thought he was armored from it. *Guess I was wrong,* he mused silently. The kid had more spine than he gave him credit for. He was growing into everything Chris had wanted in his own son and that only made it more distressful to witness. He rubbed his sore jaw absently.  
  
Buck tossed wearily, his face a bright red from the fever, murmuring in a quiet voice to things only he could see.  
  
A new shiver ran its way across Chris when Buck finally spoke one word louder and more clearer than the others.  
  
"Sarah..."  
  
Chris jerked himself straight as his own body shook. He watched his old friend as he issued a string of apologies to Chris' dead wife.  
  
"... the blood ... Sarah .... so much .... so sorry..."  
  
Buck's eyes opened though Chris knew he wasn't seeing anything but what his tortured mind was showing him. Chris laid a hand on Buck's chest. "It's all right, Buck." But his friend didn't hear him, never even turned his way. He just kept staring into the darkness. Chris shut his eyes for a moment as he clawed his way above the fresh anguish this scene was drawing from him. This was sharper suffering than Chris had experienced in years. He slowly followed Buck's gaze, almost afraid to see what Buck saw. But there was nothing in the room except shadows.  
  
Buck kept on. "Don't die... Chris ... where's Adam .... where's ... ADAM!"  
  
Chris' whole body went rigid with pain, listening to his friend's agony become manifest before him. It was more than he could bear. He knew where Buck was, knew what nightmares he shared. Visions of that fateful day fell upon Chris like ravenous wolves: the search through the blackened embers; the two charred figures huddled in the corner, arms wrapped around each other like burnt cords.  
  
Chris couldn't stand it anymore. He stood up so abruptly the chair fell backwards onto the floor with a sharp clatter. He ran for the door.  
  
"CHRIS!" Buck screamed. Weak as he was, Buck had pulled himself up and was reaching out blindly, still caught in the fever dream.  
  
Chris froze in his flight and then rushed back to grab hold of Buck. "I'm right here. I'm right here, you damn fool. Easy now." Words flowed out of him. He was desperate now to make Buck understand how wrong he had been. Time must be running out. "I'm sorry." Chris' own voice was a shadow of what it was as he brushed back the hair from Buck's eyes. He was losing the battle against his own tears. He just couldn't stand it anymore. *Oh God, not Buck. It should have been me,* Chris moaned, holding Buck to him, careful of the broken shoulder.  
  
The two sat there floating nowhere, suspended only in that dream world of the sick where time crawled to a standstill. Buck remained gripped by the nightmares that usually plagued Chris as the gunslinger murmurred apology after apology, praying that Buck would hear at least one of them.  
  
The gunslinger rubbed a tired hand roughly over his damp face, wishing he could rub the guilt away as easily. Buck didn't deserve to feel this kind of grief. No one did. A flash of futile bitterness hit him. *God damn it, Buck. You're going to live even if I have to drag you outta that hell myself.*  
  
Buck became quieter and Chris finally laid him back down on the bed, slumping to his knees beside it, his half-frozen, damp body still draped over his friend.  
  
"Stay with me, Buck," Chris whispered. He was so tired ... so damn tired. He hadn't slept in days and exhaustion ate away at him till there was nothing left but a lack of muscular control that drew the shakes from his every limb. But he couldn't sleep, his icy hands still brushing back Buck's hair from his forehead as best he could. "Don't leave me alone here, Buck. Not now. Not like this. Please. Sarah will hate me for it."  
  
* * *  
  
Buck floated in a red and black haze. He was fighting to find Chris, Sarah and Adam, digging his hands deep into the muddy mix of blood and ash. His head ached monstrously and all he wanted to do was lie down and rest. Maybe then the pain would go away. He heard himself saying something aloud but he couldn't quite make out the words. He just kept digging, desperate to find his friends.  
  
He felt a hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Let it go, Buck. Yer not goin' to find us in there."  
  
Buck turned, his mouth dropping open in shock. "Sarah!"  
  
Sarah stood above him, resplendent in her white gown, clean and unmarred despite the filth that covered Buck.  
  
"This be Christopher's private hell, not yers. Ya dinna belong here."  
  
Buck shook his head despite the lancing stab it caused. "No, this is my fault, all my fault."  
  
Sarah was looking off into the darkness. "No, it wasn't, Buck. It wasn't anybody's fault but the men who ordered the murders. Ya know that... and Christopher knows it too."  
  
Buck followed his friend's distant gaze, saw nothing, and turned back to her, puzzled. "Then why are you here?"  
  
Sarah allowed a small smile. "Because yer here." Her head tipped to regard the scoundrel. "And ya have tae leave, Buck."  
  
Buck struggled up to stand beside his friend's wife, his own eyes now searching her face which had returned to stare off again into that same distant spot. "Not without all of you."  
  
Sarah's hand rested on Buck's shoulder, squeezing it gently. "Ya have tae."  
  
"Come with me," Buck insisted.  
  
Sarah shook her head but smiled with a faint trace of hope.  
  
Buck became defiant. "I'm not leaving without you."  
  
"Ya havna choice now. I'm sending ya back. The others need ya. Christopher needs ya...tae be out there. Ya have tae lead him back home, Buck. He'll die alone if ya don't."  
  
Buck began to understand. Chris, the real Chris, was still alive and grieving. Buck nodded. "I will, Sarah. I promise. I'll stay with him. Make him come to his senses." Then he grinned that devilish grin. "Just hope he doesn't kill me when I do."  
  
"Ahh, now there ya have me, Buck," she jested lightly. Sarah released him and pointed. "Time tae go."  
  
"I'll bring him back, Sarah. I promise. You can count on me."  
  
She nodded. "I know. I always have."  
  
The world of black and red swirled and changed. Buck's stomach dropped out but then settled as a rush of cool colors and sensations enveloped him. It felt good. He looked at his hands and they were clean of the blood and soot. He relaxed and finally slept.  
  
* * *  
  
The storm was but a distant memory now and the day dawned grey and misty. A low fog hung close to the ground, enshrouding Four Corners. The world looked almost white outside the windows. Nathan entered his quarters-turned-sick-room sometime just after six in the morning.  
  
He hadn't quite known what to expect. Chris had ridden out of the storm and into town over three hours ago and had not left Buck's side since. JD had come down twenty minutes after Chris' arrival, flush faced and angry and he did not go back up.  
  
Nathan, knowing he was powerless to help Buck, had let Chris be alone with his sick friend. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Chris' presence was the only thing that would help Buck now. The gunslinger, despite his anger and his grief, would never hurt a dying man. That was as much akin to shooting someone in the back for Chris Larabee, and the healer knew Chris' thoughts on that matter. No, Buck was safe in Chris' hands.  
  
Still, when Nathan opened the door, he was astounded at the sight and immediately concerned. Buck lay pale and drawn on the bed and Chris lay crumpled, half over Buck and half on the floor. In three quick strides, Nathan was beside them.  
  
Damn, he cursed silently. Just what Nathan didn't need right now was another patient. He had a total of nine so far thanks to the storm. He touched the pulse at Chris' throat and breathed a sigh of relief.  
  
"Chris," he called out gently, shaking the gunslinger's shoulder. The man had either passed out or had fallen asleep. Little wonder too. The shadows that lined his face and surrounded his eyes were deep and dark. The man was ice cold to the touch, his clothes still damp and clammy. Chris didn't move but his breathing deepened which was a good sign. Nathan lifted the bloody rag that was wrapped around the gunslinger's hand and frowned.  
  
Laying a quick hand on Buck's forehead, Nathan, to his utter amazement, found the man's fever was less. In fact, it seemed to have dropped considerably. The healer's patented grin spread warmly across his face.  
  
"What do you know? JD was right," he said joyfully. "Damn if you didn't save him, Chris." Nathan knew consciously that it was probably Chris' half frozen body passed out over Buck's that had drained the fever from the sick man, but in Nathan's heart he knew it was also Chris' mere presence that had stopped Buck from crossing over into another kingdom.  
  
Nathan quickly checked Buck's pulse and his breathing to find them stronger and clearer. His head hung low for a moment and he almost wept. "Hallelujah," he whispered.  
  
Struggling to wake, Chris moaned softly and shifted. He could hear voices. Exhaustion tugged at him, beckoning him deeper but he resisted. Then hands were coaxing him upright.  
  
"Chris, wake up now. You'll catch a death lyin' like that."  
  
It was Nathan's soothing voice.  
  
Numbly, Chris felt himself propped up onto a chair. He tried to collect his thoughts. "Buck...." His hand reached out towards the still figure on the bed.  
  
"Buck's doin' fine." Nathan knelt down beside Chris. "He's gonna be alright, Chris. The fever's broke."  
  
Stunned, Chris straightened weakly in the chair. "What? Buck's..." He faltered, afraid he misheard the healer.  
  
"Alive, Chris." An elated laugh slipped from Nathan's lips. "He's alive and he's gonna stay that way."  
  
Chris rubbed the sand-like grit from his eyes and then looked at Buck's peaceful countenance. He did look better; the bright red flush of the fever was gone, as was the rambling voice lost in the realm of nightmares. Chris made to stand in order to go to Buck but Nathan pushed him back in the chair.  
  
"Take off your shirt, Chris."  
  
"What?" Chris looked up slightly startled. "Why?"  
  
Nathan sighed in quiet exasperation. "Because you're as cold as an icicle and the last thing I need this moment is another patient. Got more than I can stand at present. Now get that shirt off and put this one on." He threw a heavy cotton shirt across Chris' knees.  
  
One corner of Chris' mouth tugged upwards as he numbly obeyed, fumbling a bit at the buttons on the shirt. His fingers felt thick and unwieldy, but soon he had shrugged out of his damp, black shirt and tugged on Nathan's earthy, brown one. His body unconsciously relished the warmth of the dry shirt the minute it fell over his shoulders.  
  
Nathan came over and wrapped a thick wool blanket around the gunslinger for good measure and was satisfied when Chris didn't resist. "I'm going downstairs to spread the good word. Then I'll be back to take a look at that hand of yours." He showed Chris a vial prior to setting it on the bedside table. "If he wakes up, get him to drink some of this, about two swallows worth."  
  
Chris nodded, his eyes riveted to Buck. "He really gonna be alright?"  
  
Nathan smiled and nodded. "He might be out of it for awhile. Give that bone time to heal...among other things." He laid a reassuring hand on Chris' shoulder. "But Buck's gonna be just fine. Rest now...and for heaven's sake don't do it on the floor this time. Don't need ya comin' down with pneumonia." Grinning, Nathan slipped quietly out the door.  
  
Chris' eyes slid closed as a wave of relief too large to measure washed over him, taking him somewhere he had long been searching for-- a place of hope. His mouth tightened with the threat of emotions and he rubbed a hand roughly over it, trying to ease such things away. He watched Buck sleeping so peacefully now.  
  
"Aren't we a pair, Buck?" he mumbled softly. "How the hell did we ever become friends? Two more opposite people I've never seen. Night and day. And yet...," he shrugged, "you've always been there. Even when I didn't want you to. But I wasn't there for you, was I? You almost break your neck. Hell, I drove you to it. Why the hell do you stay?" Chris voice cracked slightly, and he swallowed with some difficulty.  
  
"God, Buck, I don't blame you for what happened with Sarah and ...." He faltered. "I was hurting, angry, so ready to strike at anyone. You just blundered into it." Chris pulled the blanket tighter around him as another tremor washed over him, but it was less than before. He tugged a little at the dirty wrap around his hand as he continued. "There's no one to blame for what happened that night except the murdering bastards that did it. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't my fault....it just happened." A crooked smile creased Chris' lips. "JD was right about that. Who'd have thought it?"  
  
A quiet voice came back at him. "Don't... let him... hear you say that... We'll never... get rid of him."  
  
Buck's dark eyes stared through heavy lids at his friend. He had been awake and listening to Chris' ramblings for some time. He hadn't been sure he was conscious at first. He thought he had just slipped back into another dream. It wasn't until he opened his eyes and saw Chris, bloody hand and all, did he realize he was back where he was supposed to be.  
  
Chris stumbled to his feet. "Buck!"  
  
"Hey there... pard." Buck's throat felt like rough gravel and his voice sounded worse.  
  
Chris' voice was soft and low in comparison. "I'm glad you decided to stick around."  
  
"Only if you want me to, Chris."  
  
Grimacing, Chris regarded the younger man, drained and wasted from the long battle with his demons. Chris knew how bad it could be. His own war had been raging for three years. "You should know better than to listen to the words of a moronic drunk," Chris mumbled.  
  
"Maybe you...wouldn't have...said it otherwise."  
  
Chris shook his head. "I know what the truth is, Buck, and that neither of us are at fault. I was a grown man and you didn't make me stay that night against my will. I made my own decision." Chris' throat tightened. He hated talking about this but he had to, at least this one time. He had to make amends. "I don't blame anyone but the bastards who killed them."  
  
He turned away, picking up the vial Nathan had left. "I'm sorry for what I said, Buck. There was no cause for it except my stupidity and for that I apologize."  
  
"You're a man... who's hurting, Chris... but it's been long enough. Stop torturing yourself. Let it go," Buck said, using Chris' own words of wisdom. "We'll find... those bastards...we'll make 'em pay. You have my word on that."  
  
"That's always been a given in my book. Don't worry about it no more. Here, drink this before Nathan yells at me again." He slipped a hand behind Buck and lifted him up ever so slightly.  
  
"Geez! Your hand's cold!" Buck swore, glancing up to see an actual smirk on Chris' face.  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"Like hell." Buck took a swig and scowled at the foul taste. "Damn, that's awful."  
  
Chris offered him a glass of water to wash the taste away. He was pleased when Buck drank most of it. He knew enough of fevers to know dehydration was a dangerous side effect.  
  
By the time he was done, Buck was trembling with exhaustion so Chris eased him gently back down. The big man's face paled considerably beneath his mustache as he bore the full agony of the broken limb. He tried to breath through the pain which left him covered with perspiration.  
  
Chris resumed his seat, observing his friend carefully as the man's eyes slipped slowly shut. Exhaustion dragged him back into its firm grip. Chris waited a moment and then pulled the blanket a little closer around Buck. His ministrations brought Buck awake with a start.  
  
Buck quickly sought out Chris and breathed a sigh of relief.  
  
"I'm still here," Chris assured him.  
  
Buck nodded. "Good...keep me awake...talk to me."  
  
The gunslinger could tell what dreams assaulted Buck. He had the same haunted look that Chris had himself on more than one occasion on those nights when nightmares ran supreme.  
  
"Don't let me...fall asleep," Buck implored Chris.  
  
"I don't think you're gonna have much of a choice." Chris inclined his head towards the vial on the table. "I've had that stuff before."  
  
"Damn," Buck cursed quietly, dreading the thoughts of returning to the horrifying visions of the past.  
  
"If it means anything to you," Chris said softly, "you probably won't dream."  
  
Buck's eyes drifted over to Chris, clinging to the small shred of hope. "Ya think?"  
  
Chris shifted uneasily. "Dreams tend to reflect what's bothering you. There's no reason for you to feel guilty anymore, so you shouldn't dream about it."  
  
Chris said it with such conviction that Buck almost believed him. "Dreams are... powerful things, Chris." He raised an eyebrow of suspicion. "Is that your... secret to stopping them?"  
  
"Never said mine ended," Chris remarked stoically.  
  
Buck frowned. "Let them go, Chris," he said. "The guilt... should be gone... for both of us now. I thought... that was settled. Things just are... the way they are. Maybe for a reason." He closed his eyes to see the face of Sarah Larabee grieving with her son over the lifeless body of Chris. Buck was glad to be back in the present, even though it meant that old wounds once healed over had been ripped open again. But he would deal with it like he had before. He just had to make sure that Chris could too, for Sarah's sake.  
  
Chris' mouth twisted around the familiar bout of pain that stabbed at him. "I think you just need to stop worrying about me so much."  
  
Buck shifted carefully and then stopped when a wave of nauseating agony flooded over him. When it passed he opened his eyes to regard Chris once more. "Can't be helped, Chris. We go... too far back. You're my own... personal cause."  
  
Chris exhaled heavily, trying to subdue the frustration and annoyance that was building inside him. "It'd be best to just leave me alone, Buck." There was no reason for Buck to feel responsible for him. He was a grown man.  
  
Buck waved a weak hand at him. "I made a promise to ... myself ... that I'd be there for you." He glossed over the fact to whom he had actually made the promise.  
  
"And you are," Chris admitted, his eyes still burdened with the prospect of caring for another person again.  
  
Buck could feel himself slipping away and he fought it with the last bit of strength he had left. "You're just going to have to ...accept it, Chris. You've got me... to watch your back. And I suspect you have... everyone else too. That's just the way of it."  
  
Chris shook his head wearily and ran his good hand through his matted hair. "All except JD maybe," he muttered. He had sworn that he would never care again, but now it was too late. There were six men who cared about him, and whether he wanted to admit it or not, he cared about them too.  
  
Buck's eyes narrowed at that. "Aw hell. What did you do to him?" He shook his head. "You best  
  
make... amends with that boy. I sure as hell wouldn't... want him mad at me."  
  
The left side of Chris' mouth tugged upward despite the soreness. "No, you wouldn't," he admitted.  
  
Buck smiled back at him as his eyelids dropped lower. "What did you do?" His curiosity was fighting a losing battle against his increasing fatigue and the drug.  
  
Chris shrugged. "I'll tell you about it when you wake up."  
  
"I'm not going... to sleep," Buck assured him.  
  
Chris smiled, thinking for just a moment how much that sounded like Adam. Then the all too familiar ache came with it and the smile faded. "Just sleep. One of us will be here when you come around again."  
  
"I'm not going to ......"  
  
Buck drifted off and Chris' smile returned. He adjusted the blanket once more around his friend and listened to the sound of approaching footsteps on the landing.  
  
* * *  
  
The next day brought bright sun and high clouds to the land around Four Corners. The storms were gone and all that was left was the aftereffects. The debris was slowly being cleaned up by the townsfolk, and repairs were being conducted on the various buildings that had taken a beating from the rage of the storm. The remnants of the Bane residence were torn down and plans were already made to rebuild.  
  
Vin, Ezra and JD sat within the saloon eating breakfast, each man wrapped up in his own thoughts. Vin intently observed the silent JD. His watchful eyes hadn't missed the raw bruise that covered the kid's knuckles. He had taken a swing at something and connected. He hoped it was just a wall.  
  
Ezra poked with disdain at the wet soggy mess on his plate. "I don't think that the man who has the audacity to call himself a cook even bothered to put these two eggs to the flame." He set his fork down on the table and sat back in his chair.  
  
Vin ate reticently, cocking a small grin at the gambler. It was an old gripe and one that was bound to continue until Four Corners became more 'civilized.' "He called it sunny-side up, Ezra," he commented. "In honor of today's weather."  
  
"Just what we need, a poetic cook," the gambler mumbled, his gaze unwavering from his breakfast. He frowned. "It appears to be staring at me."  
  
Vin glanced succinctly in JD's direction who sat staring at his own plate with a blank expression. "Buck's doin' fine, JD. You should eat." The bounty hunter didn't like the way JD had sunk into himself after Chris' return. Something about the way the kid was acting gnawed at him. He had thought that since Buck's recovery was imminent, the kid would have bounced back by now, but apparently there was something more bothering him. He realized what it was the instant a dark shadow fell across their table.  
  
JD's head snapped up with a look of sheer terror.  
  
Chris Larabee stood over them, his voice low and impassive. "JD. Come with me." That said, he turned and strode out the saloon doors.  
  
JD's breath was coming hard and fast, his eyes shifted swiftly from Ezra to Vin and then back outside. He had known this was coming. He had expected it. There was retribution to be had for laying a hand on a man such as Chris Larabee.  
  
He didn't regret it. Buck was alive and for that JD was grateful. He didn't care how it had come about. He knew in his heart that the gunslinger would save Buck and he had been right. Except now he had to pay the price.  
  
Rising, JD stood stiff legged, his shoulders pulled back to the point where his muscles burned. After a moment, he walked to the door and out onto the boardwalk without a word.  
  
Vin exchanged a look with Ezra, picked up his cup of coffee and trailed after the boy. He heard the gambler rise behind him.  
  
Chris sat astride his black horse, waiting. JD's young mount was saddled and ready beside him. The gunfighter threw the reins to the boy. "Follow me," he ordered.  
  
Instinctively, JD caught the reins, staring at Chris like someone come face to face with an enraged grizzly bear.  
  
Vin caught Chris' eye but the stoic man in black revealed nothing, merely waiting until JD had mounted. The tell tale mark of a bruise covered the lower part of Chris' jawline which only made the man seem more dangerous. The gunslinger turned his horse and rode at a lope out of town, JD steering placidly after.  
  
Ezra came up beside the bounty hunter. "Think that's the last we'll see of Mr. Dunne?"  
  
Taking a moment to answer, Vin shrugged, sipping from his cup. "You make a deal with the devil, you have to pay your dues."  
  
Ezra adjusted his collar, easing the suddenly too tight tie from around his neck. "If Mr. Larabee is indeed the Lucifer of legend than he is the last one I would engage in a game of chance. I pity our young Mr. Dunne." He went back inside the saloon, thanking his lucky stars that the poor soul heading for Purgatory wasn't him.  
  
Vin watched the pair until they could no longer be seen, debating whether or not he should interfere. Sighing, he decided he had played mother hen long enough. This was between Chris and JD. At this point, he wondered who was gonna fare better.  
  
* * *  
  
Chris rode at a brisk pace till the town vanished behind them, never saying another word. JD didn't start a conversation either. He was afraid it'd sound like he was trying to weasel his way out of whatever Chris had planned for him. He rode quietly behind the gunfighter, watching the landscape ahead of them. With a start, he realized where they were heading. His chest seized suddenly in fear. He calmed himself not wanting Chris to know he was unsettled by it.  
  
Chris finally reined in. He wheeled his horse to face JD. "Is this the place?" he asked, his face hard and drawn. The man still looked exhausted but his bearing showed otherwise.  
  
JD nodded mutely. The tall, lone oak tree stood in the middle of the barren landscape. The storm last night had caused a lightening strike which had seared the old oak from tip to roots, but still the damn thing lived.  
  
It seemed like ages since JD was last here. He remembered leaping to the ground beside his fallen friend. Buck had lain so pale and lifeless that JD thought he had died right then. The panic and then the determination to bring him back to Four Corners was an ordeal that JD had played over and over in his mind. He cursed himself every moment, knowing it was he who had convinced his friend to ride out here with him. It had been his fault that Buck had....  
  
Then he stopped, realizing that he was taking on guilt that belonged to no one. It just happened. God, how easy it was to take on blame if you were willing enough. It was a strong man who stood against it and took on only what he was due. Most of the time that was more than enough.  
  
He looked up to see that Chris had already dismounted. JD straightened purposely and slowly got off his horse to stand in front of the dark and driven gunfighter.  
  
Chris painstakingly removed his black duster and laid it across his saddle. Then he did the same with his gunbelt.  
  
Eyes wide, mouth dry, JD followed suit, readying himself for a fight. He hung his bowler on his saddle horn and rolled up his sleeves, taking a stance that he had seen professional boxers take in preparation for their match. Whatever Chris Larabee was going to dish out, JD swore he'd take it like a man.  
  
Chris pulled something out of his rifle stock and threw it at JD.  
  
JD caught it in mid-air and stared numbly at it.  
  
It was an axe.  
  
Chris observed him for a moment, then pulled out a second one for himself. He strode determinedly towards the tree. Spreading his feet apart, he swung the axe with the force of the driving wind from the previous night. When the axe head buried itself deep into the wood, the sound of thunder rolled with it. Chris wrenched it out and struck again, cutting a huge wedge from the trunk. He didn't stop.  
  
JD's mouth hung open for a moment and then he grinned wide with understanding. He stepped up to the oak's imposing form and laid siege to its other side.  
  
Together the two men labored for three hours cutting a swath around its base, their sweat dripping to the saturated ground. Chunks of wood littered the earth around them and still the tree stood.  
  
Seething, Chris pushed at the trunk with the last of his remaining strength, his worn out body just about spent. "Fall, damn you!" he growled. His hands, pressed against the wood, stained it red. The wound on his hand had opened again but he didn't seem to notice. All he knew was that the tree had to fall. Nothing else mattered.  
  
JD came up beside him and added his own muscle. They strained till pulsing veins stood out on their damp foreheads and their faces flushed red with blood. Their voices screamed with pain as flesh and bone struggled to defeat their adversary.  
  
Suddenly a crack rent the air and the oak tumbled to the ground. Chris almost fell with it but JD caught his arm. To his surprise, Chris didn't shrug him off.  
  
Steadying himself against the kid, Chris straightened, a look of weary satisfaction creasing his features, his chest heaving.  
  
JD sat heavily on the remaining stump, wiping his forehead with a bandanna from his pocket. His body ached as muscles, stretched to the breaking point, tried to relax. He quietly watched the gunfighter as the tall man labored to catch his breath, the back of his shirt soaked through from the exertion.  
  
"What--what happens now?" he asked the gunfighter quietly.  
  
Chris drew some extra air into his lungs and answered with a question. "What is it...you want to happen?"  
  
JD stared at the fallen tree, the huge burn mark from the lightening's strike marking it like the brand of Cain. It represented all the guilt and hate that had enveloped them over the past few days and JD had been more than willing to take his anger out on it. But now that it was done he was at a loss. "I want things to go back the way they were," he murmured.  
  
Chris remained quiet a moment, then he said, "That's not always possible." JD started to say something but Chris broke him off. "Doesn't mean I'm not willing to try. I was... wrong. I'll admit that and maybe that'll change things. But let's just wait and see." His eyes drifted to the tree that had almost taken someone closer to Chris than he realized. It was charred black, with gaping lacerations from their attack. "We laid one demon to rest today. Let's be satisfied with that for now."  
  
JD nodded silently.  
  
Chris reached for the flask that was in his duster and JD winced. That's how all this began. The gunslinger took a long swallow from it and then handed it to JD.  
  
JD shook his head angrily, annoyed that Chris fell so quickly back into old habits. Scowling, Chris insisted so the young man grabbed the flask and took a swig. To his surprise, it was just sugar water. With an astonished look, he gazed up at Chris who suddenly smiled gently and then swung up on his horse.  
  
"Let's head back to town, JD. Don't want Buck getting nervous if neither of us are around. He might think we've gone back to fighting."  
  
With a huge grin, so opposite to the gunfighter's slight smile, JD stood. He leaped onto his horse's back and wheeled off towards Four Corners, a loud whoop of triumph and sheer joy rolling over the hills.  
  
Chris shook his head. Regardless of how much a man JD was growing into, he had that same boisterous, wild streak that Buck possessed. His smile gradually widening, Chris rode slowly back to town at a easy jog. He pulled a clean cloth from his saddlebag and wrapped it gingerly around his hand. Nathan was gonna pitch a fit about the state it was in. But it didn't matter. For now the storms were over, leaving the land clean and damp and the day bright and clear, offering a promise of life and renewal.  
  
It was enough for now.  
  
The End 


End file.
